


Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Spruce_Moose (Duckyboos)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternative Universe - Pirates, Angst, Bad Flirting, Demons, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate to Love, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Pirate Dean, Pirates, Scientist Castiel, Sea Monsters, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Snark, Snarky Castiel, Swordfighting, Swords, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Spruce_Moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t know jack shit, <i>Captain</i>,” It’s said in that way Jo has. She never calls him Captain unless it’s in front of other crews or in instances like this, wherein it holds a note of derision. Actually, it holds a whole orchestra of derision, which is quite extraordinary for one word. “Because you never tell me jack shit.”</p><p>Dean barely resists the urge to bang his head off the table he’s seated at; the large oak one he uses to chart routes and plot journeys. Really the only thing that stops him is the idea of the sighting vane from his backstaff getting imbedded in his eye.</p><p>“I tell you everything.”</p><p> Jo responds with an exaggerated burst of laughter. “Yes, and the Dread Pirate Roberts is just a farm boy.”</p><p> </p><p> *</p><p> </p><p>Captain Dean Winchester has a problem.</p><p>Said problem can be resolved with one easy solution; a scientist by the name of Dr. Castiel Novak.</p><p>However, Dean soon learns that nothing about Castiel Novak - or the situation they both abruptly find themselves in - is easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pirates!
> 
> Who doesn't love pirates? And by that, I mean Hollywood-style pirates, not real ones. Obviously. Psht.
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by the lovely [ bettydays ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadrobots/pseuds/betty%20days/)

Blue.

Dean is surrounded by the color every day of his life, in a range of different hues: the clear turquoise of the tropics, the Catalina of the sky just before a storm, the indigo of deep waters.

This is different though. The pair of eyes that have captured Dean's attention are a shade that he can’t put his finger on – somewhere between azure and cerulean, but neither.

It’s so quiet now, and Dean takes a moment to just stand on the deck, gazing out over the calm waters that stretch on for miles, meeting the faint golden glow of the rising sun at the horizon. He breathes cool briny air deep into his lungs, the taste a familiar and comforting one.

“Dean! What the Hell are you doing?”

It was too good to last.

His first mate and quartermaster, Jo, is every bit as fierce as any male pirate he's ever encountered. What she lacks in actual cock, she more than makes up for in balls. Her mother, Ellen, owns a tavern in Tortuga and, while she wasn’t necessarily happy to watch her only daughter sail off with the likes of Dean Winchester, it was better than the only real alternative for most women on the island.

Though, Dean would like to see anyone – man or woman – try to corral Jo into doing anything she doesn’t want to. He’s seen her cut through scores of pirates twice her size like they were nothing, blade as sharp as her tongue and only a fraction as deadly.

Suffice it to say, Dean trusts her. He trusts her with almost anything.

Though at this moment in time, she stands with a hand on her hip, the other gesturing in an expansive motion to the men cowering at their feet, backs to the sea, held in place by their fear and not much else.“In case it’s escaped your notice, we have fifteen prisoners for you to decide the fates of!”

Dean waves a hand dismissively, elbow knocking the hilt of the cutlass sheathed at his hip. It’s his favorite weapon next to the flintlock pistol inherited from his father, the late-great Captain John Winchester.

The man had been the legend of the seas, feared and admired in equal measure by both his peers and crew. He was Dean’s own personal idol, despite the inherent flaws in his personality – of which there were many – but Dean’s loyalty has always been blind where family is concerned, and he knows it’s his one true weakness. He has come to terms with it and has no plans to change.

Trained from a young age and brought into a life of piracy, Dean can’t remember a time when he didn’t want to be just like his father, sailing the high seas, living a wonderful life of freedom. Of course, it helped that he was promised the _Impala_ ; a fast but sturdy brigantine vessel, which was John Winchester’s pride and joy, his one true love after Dean’s mother died.

And now Dean has the ship for himself.

“Let them decide for themselves,” Dean replies smoothly, which is really not as flippant in meaning as it sounds. He’s nothing if not fair – at least some of the time – and after he’s interrupted their morning with his quest, the least he can do is offer them a choice.

Dean cares about the fate of only one prisoner: azure-cerulean eyes, who is kneeling to Dean’s right, all tousled dark hair and angled cheekbones.

It's just plain off-putting, really. When Dean thinks of scientists, he conjures up images of old men in long white coats, crazy gray hair coming out of most orifices on their faces, holding up test tubes and speaking – what sounds to the laymen anyway – gibberish.

Not this. Not a youngish handsome man with delicate – almost pretty – features that are only marred by the perpetual scowl that he has worn since Dean and his crew boarded the small vessel a few hours ago.

The attack itself had been relatively easy to pull off, Dean having done it dozens of times throughout his career. A simple case of throwing over grappling hooks to pull the two ships together, an important skill to master, as the vessels are likely to damage each other’s rigging if grappled in the wrong way. Dean’s preferred method,the method his father taught him, is to grapple from stern to stern, pulling the ships together at the point that ensures minimal risk to rigging and, more importantly, provides the largest possible area to fight.

Not that there was much of a fight.

It was early when they boarded the _Granada_ – as if one would expect to get anywhere in these waters after naming one's ship after a fruit– taking the small crew by surprise, and the only injuries sustained were by a few brave souls trying to match Dean and Jo’s sword skills.

The little schooner, manned by amateurs and crewed by scientists, never stood a chance.

Dean clears his throat as he strides up and down the line of trembling bodies, each one recoiling and shrinking back when he approaches. No doubt they have heard tales of him and the horrors he has inflicted. Which may or may not be ever-so-slightly exaggerated, depending on the particular story. For instance, yes, it was him who fought twenty (okay, so maybe closer to ten) of the Dread Pirate Roberts’ best men single-handed, but no, he did not keelhaul the one survivor...

Mainly because keelhauling is archaic and mostly ineffective as a way of getting information, as one cannot interrogate the dead. Dean Winchester may be a lot of things, but ineffectual is not one of them.

“I am Dean Winchester, Captain of the _Impala_ ,” Dean announces, chest puffed out and voice as deeply menacing as he can make it.

Someone lets out a pitiful sound, like a rat caught in a trap, and Dean allows a grin to spread across his face, easy and mischievous. “Ah, so you _have_ heard of me. That should make things easier.”

He doesn’t need to look at his first mate to know that she’s rolling her eyes.

He inclines his head toward the stairs leading down to the cabins, where his sailing master, Benny, and boatswain, Bobby, are already working to relieve the _Granada_ and its occupants of their worldly possessions. “We’ll be stripping your ship of provisions: food, rigging, medicinal supplies, _et cetera_ , so I’ll give each one of you a choice." Dean pauses, gaze sweeping across them. "You can either join my crew, or you can be left here with nothing. Make your decision.”

As he makes his way once again down the straggly line, he’s entirely unsurprised to discover that the vast majority seem to be choosing certain death over a life of piracy, and it’s probably not out of some idea of nobility. More likely, they think they know these seas better than Dean, think that they can outsmart him and somehow make it back to shore on nothing but the grace of Poseidon.

What they almost certainly _don’t_ know is that the nearest landmass with any kind of provisions on it is at least a week in either direction.

When he gets to Azure-cerulean Eyes, the man looks up at him, squinting slightly in the early morning sun, and Dean can see fear there, but also a measure of defiance that is rather impressive under the circumstances. Fiercer men than this scientist have begged for mercy in the face of this decision, but Dean can see by the determined clench of the man’s jaw that he has no such intention.

The man opens his mouth to no doubt tell Dean that he’d rather die than go with a pirate or some such romantic bullshit, but Dean cuts him off with a point of his finger and a cheerful, “Except for you. You have no choice.” 

The man pauses for a split-second before replying,, voice pitched low and heated, “But that’s not fair.”

Dean flashes his most charming smile and lifts one shoulder in a helpless shrug, “Pirate.”

“Captain, a word.” Jo forcefully pulls him to one side, fingertips pinching into his bicep, grip deceptively strong, voice hushed, when she asks, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

It's a question for the ages really, because there have only been three things in Dean’s life that he’s been certain of, and this isn’t one of them. However, he _is_ Captain, and although he runs his ship as a democracy, he can play the veto card any time he damn well chooses.

He chooses now.

“Yes, and I’d thank you not to question me in front of the new members of the crew.”

Jo removes her hand and holds them both up in a parody of surrender, though judging by the glint in her eye, this conversation is far from over. He may be able to use his veto card, but Jo can nag like no other and Dean gets the distinct impression that she’s going to utilize the skill to the best of her ability later on, when Dean is least expecting it.

For now though, they need to get the men transferred over to the _Impala_ , and give them somewhere to sleep and a job to do. Unfortunately, most of them look too weedy to be much use for physical labor. Maybe a few can aid the powder monkeys, and a couple can help Garth in the kitchen. Poseidon only knows how badly the poor bastard needs it.

Though if there’s a surgeon or doctor among them, it would be the best news Dean’s had all year. Also, highly unlikely.

***

 

Getting everybody onto the _Impala_ in a timely and efficient fashion is easier said than done. For Dean’s crew – who have spent years climbing up rigging, clambering into small spaces, and boarding merchant vessels – it’s no trouble at all; it comes as easy as breathing. For the scientists and crew of the _Granada,_ however,  it's a different story.

One man changes his mind and elects to stay behind when he sees that he’s going to have to swing across between the two ships, another lacks the upper body strength required and falls into the sea below, and Bobby grumpily fishes him out.

The remainder of the half-dozen are okay, managing to get across with the minimum of fuss, despite obvious nerves, but, once again, Dean is left in reluctant admiration of the scientist with the maddeningly-colored eyes, who manages the swing with a grace and air of dignity that so few can pull off.

Especially under the  circumstances.

Eventually, once everybody is safely on board, they cast off, leaving the _Granada_ and some of its crew behind at the mercy of the sea. Inexperienced types often think that piracy is the greater of two evils, but being left on a boat with nothing, no way of surviving  seems infinitely worse, and for a second – just a split-second among the millions that have been before and will be after – Dean feels a twinge of guilt.

His goal today was not to condemn innocent men to death, but he’s learned the hard way that good intentions count for nothing, and they certainly change nothing.

He watches the schooner getting smaller and smaller until it’s just a pinprick on the skyline, the men aboard blinking out of existence along with the vessel. Dean exhales heavily, rubbing at his jaw with calloused fingertips, rough-skinned from years of rope-work and the associated tasks with running a ship and crew of over fifty men...and one woman.

His peace and quiet is – as pretty much always – rudely interrupted by said woman. It’s times like these that he believes in the old superstition that it’s bad luck to bring a woman aboard, because she certainly has no qualms about challenging Dean about anything and everything.

Which is pretty bad luck for him.

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck you’re playing at?”

The short answer is no. However, Jo would never just take it at face value and accept it, so instead, Dean feigns innocence, which is something he can occasionally pull off despite who and what he is, and says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s a scientist. He could be useful.”

Jo cocks a neatly-manicured brow. How she has time to groom herself, Dean will never know. He barely has time to keep his beard in check. Even now, there’s a thick layer of dark stubble covering his chin and cheeks. “And _of course_ it has nothing to do with those sapphire blue eyes of his.”

Dean turns to face her properly, all wide-eyed and faux-enthusiasm. “Really? You think they’re sapphire? I can’t decide between cerulean or azure.”

The fact that it’s true does nothing to lessen the sarcastic intent.

Jo just stares open-mouthed for a few moments, and Dean is secretly pleased with himself that he’s rendered her speechless. He can count on one hand the amount of times in the last five years that this has happened, so it really is quite a momentous occasion. He vacantly wonders if the _Granada_ had any champagne stored.

However, victory is short-lived as the _Impala’s_ master gunner, Rufus comes stomping up the galley stairs, all the fury of a brewing storm in his every movement, and Dean inwardly sighs. The man is an expert when it comes to artillery, but human interaction is something that generally seems beyond him, unless the human in question comes bearing whiskey or rum, at which point he turns into Mr. Amicable.

“Rufus,” Dean starts with as much cheer as he can muster, only to be cut off with a finger waggling in his face, stern facial expression accompanying it.

“Captain, I put up with a lot on this ship –" Dean opens his mouth to interject, but Rufus steamrolls on, ignorant of, or flat-out _ignoring_ , Dean’s attempt to defend himself or his actions, whichever is being targeted. “But this is one injustice that I shall not tolerate.”

“And what injustice is that, Rufus?” Jo asks from over Dean’s shoulder, glee evident in her tone, knowing _exactly_ how to light the fuse to set the master gunner off.

“These goddamn interlopers!” Rufus explodes, throwing his hands up in the air out of pure frustration. “They’re everywhere! We have enough to worry about without catering to their pansy asses! And they’re poking their noses into our business and –"

Dean bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to hide his smile as Rufus spins out of control on his tirade. In all fairness, the last time he truly had a good moan was at least a week ago, so he’s long overdue.

“There’s only six of them, ya miserable old coot,” Bobby grumbles as he marches past, arms loaded with supplies. “Now quit your whining and help me with some of this stuff.”

Bobby and Rufus have a complicated relationship. It’s best described as a love/hate one, but both of them would deny the love part with their dying breath, despite having taken bullets for one another in the past, and will probably do so again in the future.

“ _I’m_ the miserable old coot?” Rufus sounds genuinely indignant and Bobby’s barbed reply is as well-received as ever, sending them into a bickering match of epic proportions.

It’s only as the two old men really start laying into one another – arms flailing, spittle flying – that Dean notices the figure on the starboard side, a body cutting a silhouette against the sunlight in Dean’s eyes. Even without being able to see, he already has a good idea as to who it is, can tell by the resigned slump to his shoulders, and for a brief second, Dean wonders if the man is going to jump overboard rather than serve under his command.

He certainly hopes not; fishing men out of the sea is a pain in the ass. Especially those that don’t want to be fished.

But the scientist just stands there, staring out across the ocean, wind whipping at his loose pants, hands uselessly balled into fists at his sides, tension coming off him in waves.

Dean wavers, lost to any ideas of what to do next, whether he should disturb the man after he’s just kidnapped him, or leave him alone in his solitude, but then he remembers that he’s supposed to be the Captain of this ship – despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary – so he strides over, drawing himself up to his full height next to the scientist.

He follows the man’s stare out across the sparkling ultramarine water, trying to identify what he's seeing in the ocean that is so utterly fascinating, but before he can pinpoint it, the scientist turns to him, looks him square in the eye, and says, “Was I…” his deep voice falters, eyes lowering, choosing to look at Dean’s boots rather than his face. He clears his throat and tries again. “Was I the reason you boarded the ship? Were you looking for me specifically?”

Dean can’t answer that question honestly without it raising a whole host of others in the scientist's mind.

So he lies. And intends to continue doing so until the truth becomes apparent.

“No. We needed supplies and your ship was the only one we’d come across for the better part of a week. It was just the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The man nods once to himself, a quick bob of his head, confirming something in his own mind.

“Okay then.” He sucks in a deep breath and turns his back on Dean, facing out toward the ocean once more. Again, he utters to himself, “Okay then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there's been a slight change of plan in regards to this fic. In case you haven't noticed, it's just me and will be for the foreseeable as Betty and I are gonna be working on another project together instead. 
> 
> So apologies for the confusion and thank you all for the support for the first chapter.
> 
> Oh, and there is an update schedule for this and my other longfic (...And An Angel Shall Lead Them) which I'll post up on Tumblr later for those interested.

This is not what Castiel had envisaged when they left Charlotte Harbor destined for Pelegosto three weeks ago.

No, he had imagined a crystal-clear ocean with endless possibilities to complete his research; days spent working under the sun, collecting data and studying the results. Which is something he’s good at. Order and organization help ease his cluttered mind.

Instead he’s stuck on a pirate ship, going Poseidon-knows-where, with his only real possession that’s worth a damn secured in the Captain’s dayroom. If he were a braver – or perhaps stupider – man he would have fought the Captain tooth and nail for the plain gold wedding band that was so cruelly ripped off his ring finger.

It’s okay though. He can bide his time. He’ll wait them out.

The man in question is currently shoveling food into his mouth like it’s the end of the world whilst his band of pirates go about their business, apparently having already eaten. Which somehow makes Castiel dislike him even more. What kind of Captain lies in bed whilst his crew do all of the work?

Captain Dean Winchester, apparently.

Castiel spoons through the slop in his bowl, thoroughly unimpressed with whatever it’s supposed to be. The pirates took enough of the _Granada_ ’s food to be able to make a meal better than _this_. He wouldn’t feed this swill to his worst enemy, let alone a crew who need the sustenance to be able to run a ship that is at least twice the size of the little schooner that they were all taken from.

“Something wrong?”

Castiel looks up in the direction of the low drawl. Captain Winchester grins back at him, evidently done with the stuffing of his face. “You were staring at your eggs like they’d personally affronted you.”

The mush in his bowl – and the fact that he needs a bowl for them is explanation enough for the level of quality he's being forced to endure – is supposed to be eggs?

“It’s disgusting.”

The Captain shrugs, unconcerned. “You’ll get used to it.”

Somehow Castiel doubts it. He says as much to the pirate, who just chuckles infuriatingly as he rises, stretching his arms overhead, his wooden chair scraping along the floor with a noise that sets Castiel’s teeth on edge. “It’s not like we have much of a choice for the next few weeks, so I suggest you learn to manage or you’ll starve to death.”

“That isn’t an entirely unappealing option when compared side by side with this.” He lifts the bowl in demonstration, watching the ‘eggs’ slosh from one side to the other, almost entirely liquid.

He doesn’t miss the Captain’s wince. “I know. Believe me, I know.” He walks over to the surface that is already piled high with dishes and places his atop the leaning tower, “If you or any of your crew from the _Granada_ have any cooking skills, you’re more than welcome to help out.”

“They’re not my crew.” Castiel mutters somewhat petulantly. He doesn’t even really know them that well, having employed them solely for the purpose of this expedition. Though, they seem like a decent group of people – infinitely more honorable than his present company – though he thinks that the cook elected to stay behind.

Which is pretty typical of Castiel’s luck lately.

“Okay,” Captain Winchester says, crossing the room in several large strides, making his way to the bottom of the galley’s stairs that leads up onto the deck.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask.” The Captain responds unhelpfully, stopping at the foot of the wooden staircase, not bothering to turn around and face his captive. Though what does Castiel really expect from this man and his ilk? They’re a gang of violent thugs and thieves, no better than the men they hang back on land; of course they would have the manners of heathens.

Castiel swallows hard, ignoring his inner voice that’s telling him to grab the nearest implement and imbed it in the Captain’s skull. It wouldn’t end well for him and he doesn’t have a death wish, despite Gabriel voicing his concerns about the very same thing the previous night.

He already has a good idea of what the answer to his question is going to be, but he’s got to _try_ , would never forgive himself if he didn’t, and so he asks in a voice that sounds meeker than he would like, “Would you-- I mean… Can I have my wedding ring back?”

There’s a small pause and in a quieter, softer voice, almost matching Castiel’s, the other man replies with an entirely expected, “No.” And then he’s gone, taking the creaky steps two at a time.

 

***

 

It’s mid-morning before Castiel finds another member of ‘his’ crew and it’s Michael down below decks, doing some kind of inventory in the small armory. The smell of gunpowder is a strong one; thick and heady in the cramped space and it only serves as a reminder for just how deadly the people he’s trapped on a ship with, actually are.

“Hello Castiel.” Michael seems overly cheery, despite the circumstances and Castiel fights hard to return the smile.

“Good morning Michael. How are you faring?”

Michael turns back to his task; moving a cannon ball that looks disproportionately heavy judging by the strain in his arms. Castiel steps forward in an aborted movement to help, but realizes that there isn’t really anything he can do. Michael drops the ball on top of the triangular pile stacked against the far wall of the square area. “I’m okay thank you.” He straightens up, wiping a forearm across his brow, panting. “Shouldn’t you be doing your duties? Not that I mind the company, I just don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

Castiel frowns. “Duties?”

Michael manages a breathy laugh, blue eyes full of humor, “Yes. Duties. Instilled on us by our wonderful captors. You didn’t think I was doing this for fun did you?”

Well, of course not.

“I’m working under the master gunner,” Michael continues, shifting his weight. “Grumpy ass he is. Samandriel is working with the powder monkeys. Mostly because of how small he is, I think. Gabriel is with the ummm…” he clicks his gun powder-stained fingers, searching for the right word, “boat-swane? Did I pronounce that right?”

“I think it’s pronounced bosun.”

Michael nods, “That’s it. Gabriel is with him, learning how to work the bowsprit.”

“What of Zachariah? And Uriel?”

Michael shrugs, “I’m not sure. Though I’d be surprised if one or both of them hasn’t managed to sneak themselves into some cushy task that sees them sitting on their asses. Like counting the Captain’s gold.”

Castiel pulls his chapped bottom lip between his teeth. The Captain’s gold now includes his ring. If Zachariah or Uriel really are tasked with that, then maybe they could be persuaded to get it back for him.

“Thanks Michael.” Castiel forces a smile and Michael nods in return, resuming his duties as Castiel rushes off to find either of the unaccounted for men from the _Granada_.

He’s in such a hurry that he doesn’t see the Captain emerging from his cabin until he collides with him, smacking right into a firm chest that he absolutely does _not_ stay pressed to for a moment longer than is strictly necessary.

“Fancy running into you,” Captain Winchester smirks down at him, usual cockiness back in place after his out-of-character mildness from breakfast. At the thought of breakfast, Castiel fights the urge to shudder. “Or you running into me.”

It’s obvious by the expression on the pirate’s face that he thinks he’s hilarious. Castiel will take great joy in disabusing him of that notion. “Does your crew tell you that you’re funny? Because if so, they’re lying to you.”

The other man raises his eyebrows, surprise at Castiel’s snark evident. “Actually they don’t. But that doesn’t stop me. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”

“Well maybe for all our sakes, you should seriously consider giving them the satisfaction.”

“Fiesty. I just knew you’d be interesting.”

Something about that sentence seems odd. It takes Castiel another second to figure out what it is. “What do you mean, you ‘just _knew_?’ You make it sound like you’d been anticipating our meeting before we actually did.”

Captain Winchester’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, but this close Castiel can see every nuance in his expression, can see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows hard, can see the bead of sweat snaking down his left temple, so when the obvious lie of, “What? No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” spills from his lips – lips that are far too feminine for a pirate Captain – Castiel is already deconstructing it in his mind.

The silence falls between them, heavy and thick with the Captain’s deception.

Castiel narrows his eyes, infuriation rushing to the surface, “Why are you lying to me?”

The Captain pulls back, closing himself off again, “Even if I was lying – which I’m not – I believe we’ve already covered this with ‘pirate’.”

Far from satisfied, but understanding that he’s going to get no further for the moment, Castiel instead changes his approach and tackles the other question bothering him. “Why haven’t you given me any purpose to serve on your ship? Everybody has something.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction he’s just come from. “Michael is working there, Gabriel is on deck,” time to test the waters, “Zachariah is…”

“Working in the sail locker,” the Captain supplies.

Ah, far from the ‘cushy job’ Michael had hinted at then.

“And Uriel?”

“He’s working the windlass at the moment.”

Interesting.

“So give me something.”

A filthy smile flits across the Captain’s face and it doesn’t take someone of Castiel’s caliber to work out what is going through the pirate’s grubby little mind. And it must be little if he thinks that Castiel would touch him with a twenty foot bowsprit. “You’re a pig.”

The Captain’s expression turns cloudy, eyes darkening from their usual Napier green down to a mossier shade. It reminds Castiel of the fields back home. “Yes, and you’re on my ship instead of adrift in the middle of the ocean with no supplies. So maybe you ought to start being a little more grateful and a little less of a prick.”

Castiel’s mouth drops open in incredulity. _He’s_ the prick?

“If I’d had the choice I would have stayed behind. I would have chosen death over being here with the likes of _you_.”

“Oh, how very fucking noble.” The Captain spits, mocking. “If it’s really that much of a hardship for you to be here, why don’t you throw yourself overboard? I promise I won’t even bother to fish you out. At least then you can say that you got to make a _choice_.”

“That’s probably the first decent thing you’ve said!” Castiel shoots back, hands clenching into fists at his sides. He may not be able to fight as well as a _pirate_ , but he can make sure he gets one or two shots in. Maybe mess up that ridiculously attractive face a little.

Suddenly they’re squaring off against one another, faces close enough that Castiel can feel the Captain’s breath puffing against his cheek, bodies almost touching and he’s not as repulsed by the whole thing as he feels he ought to be.

“I’m not completely opposed to throwing you in the brig, you know.” The Captain’s voice is pitched low and menacing, barely above a growl. “See how _decent_ you think I am then.”

“If you want to be decent, then give me a job to do.”

“Who said that? I’m a pirate; civility isn’t really in the job description.”

Castiel has no real comeback for that. Instead he chooses to go with repetition in the hopes that the Captain may stop being an egotistical idiot for longer than twenty seconds, “Give me a job.”

“Such as? Can you cook?”

He can. And it would be better than the swill they had for breakfast – then again a slug on a hunk of moldy bread would be a vast improvement – but his reply is equal parts mercenary and hopeful when he suggests, “I can count your gold.”

Dean pulls back again, mirth sparking in his eyes, eyes that have returned to the relative safety of jade, all traces of anger seemingly dissipated. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Castiel opens his mouth to reply that yes, yes he thinks the pirate is that stupid; interminably so, but as if sensing the answer, the Captain cuts him off with a sharp motion of his hand and a small smile on his lips.

“That was a rhetorical question. I’ve already managed to _somehow_ piece together your feelings about me.”

“So maybe you’re not as dense as I initially thought.” As soon as the words are out, he’s instantly regretting them. He really should remember where he is and who he’s dealing with. For all his bravado in the moments preceding this one, now that the rush of adrenaline has passed, he’s beginning to realize that he was exceptionally lucky that the Captain hadn’t followed through on his threat to throw him overboard.

Or keelhauled him. According to the legends that Zachariah was busy spouting off about last night when they were in their very uncomfortable bunks, Captain Winchester once keelhauled a fellow pirate because he failed to submit.

Luckily though, the Captain is still looking amused rather than furious, “I shall take that as the backhanded compliment I’m sure that it wasn’t meant to be. As far as a job goes, maybe you really could help out in the kitchen?” It comes out as a question rather than an order, which Castiel is certain is unintentional, but then he’s surprised further when the pirate adds, “or you could continue your research? Whichever you’d prefer.”

In that moment, Castiel is too astounded to question how the Captain knows about his research; much more preoccupied with the idea that he’s being offered two options, from the man he had thought was determined to take the privilege of decision-making away from him, “Wait, are you… are you giving me --”

“A choice? Yes, I believe I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to those who are reading, commenting and kudos-ing. Feedback is always invaluable and I appreciate everything.

 

Dean is never going to hear the end of this.

 _Jo_ will never let him hear the end of this.

“So you gave him a choice? _Now_ after you refused to where his life was concerned back on the _Granada_?” She bends at the waist, searching carelessly through the jewels and money in Dean’s strongbox, eventually picking up a ruby the size of a small rock and examining it, turning it over in her hand as she straightens back up.

“It’s a small concession,” Dean responds automatically, lie tripping off his tongue. Apparently all that practicing to himself whilst pacing a hole in the floor of his dayroom has paid dividends. Or maybe he’s just getting that good with weaving better lies because he does it so often these days.

Ah, but for simpler times.

“Yes,” Jo says slowly, tearing her attention away from the jewel that is catching the rays of the mid-afternoon sun, casting burgundy over her palm. His first mate looks at him like she believes that if she stares long enough, he’ll crack wide open and spill every juicy little thing he’s thinking. Which won’t happen. He’s become an expert keeper of secrets; he’s hardly going to give that up on the last leg of his plan. “But once you start giving the prisoners an inch, they’ll take a mile. Remember what happened when we took the Dauntless?”

Dean remembers. How could he forget? It had been early in his career, a couple of weeks after his father had passed away and he’d been eager to prove himself. All he’d proven was that he was a pushover by letting them keep a weapon each, believing that they would be loyal to their new Captain.

They’d lost some good crew members that day.

“This isn’t like that and you know it.”

“I don’t know jack shit, _Captain_ ,” It’s said in that way Jo has. She never calls him Captain unless it’s in front of other crews or in instances like this, wherein it holds a note of derision. Actually, it holds a whole orchestra of derision, which is quite extraordinary for one word. “Because you never tell me jack shit.”

Dean barely resists the urge to bang his head off the table he’s seated at; the large oak one he uses to chart routes and plot journeys. Really the only thing that stops him is the idea of the sighting vane from his backstaff getting imbedded in his eye.

“I tell you everything.”

Jo responds with an exaggerated burst of laughter. “Yes, and the Dread Pirate Roberts is just a farm boy.”

Dean has no real retort. He’s tired, having not slept for quite some time, instead choosing to complete some vital maintenance on the _Impala_ ; repairing the sails – which need constant patching – and splicing and joining ropes. It’s hard labor, but Dean isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

And anyway, he can sleep when he’s dead. Which may come sooner than he’s fully prepared for.

Jo’s usual you’re-being-an-idiot glare softens when she takes in Dean’s resignation and submission – two things she’s not used to seeing from her Captain – and nearly all the harshness is gone from her tone when she speaks again, “Just tell me what’s bothering you. Maybe I can help. And if I can’t, maybe Bobby –“

Dean cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “No, nobody can help. Not you, not Bobby, not Benny or anyone else.” For once it’s actually true, rather than being some misguided idea that he’s the Captain and therefore has to shoulder burdens alone. On this occasion, really, none of his crew can help.

There’s a small lull in the conversation as Jo drops the ruby back onto the pile of treasure, before something seems to slot into place in her mind. Which is always dangerous. “Can the scientist help? Is that why you brought him on board?”

Dean doesn’t dare to answer, instead he makes a transparent attempt at distraction, “Do you think the real reason eggs have the nickname of ‘cackle-fruit’ is because someone took one look at Garth’s version and burst out laughing?”

Jo snorts out a laugh despite herself and Dean knows he’s won. For now. But that’s okay, because time is running short, so there are a finite amount of times that they can have this conversation.

Dean just has to hold out a little longer.

 

***

 

Dinner tonight is an approximation of what Garth imagines food might be. As usual, it’s way off the mark. Instead it bears an eerie resemblance to breakfast, just a slightly different color.

“Garth!” Benny calls out, southern drawl carrying over all the other voices in the galley. “What is this you’re serving us?”

Garth shoots the sailing master a withering look that suggests he thinks Benny is trying to be funny, rather than asking a question that has silenced the whole room, wood creaking as people lean forward on their seats, eager to hear the answer.

Rufus and Bobby even have a bet going. Rufus thinks it’s supposed to be turtle, Bobby swears blind it’s chicken.

Dean wouldn’t be surprised if it was some bastard amalgamation of the two.

“As if you don’t know.”

“We really don’t.” One of the scientists from the _Granada_ with short chestnut hair and matching eyes, deadpans, “please tell us.” Dean is pretty sure that one’s name is Gabriel. Bobby had said that he barely stopped making jokes all afternoon, but was a conscientious worker.

Doesn’t look like he’s joking right now though.

Sitting next to Gabriel is the one Dean had consigned to the Armory – Michael? Rufus had nothing but praise for the young man; efficient as anything and polite to boot. Opposite him is the little one – the name escapes Dean – but the other powder monkeys say that he’s a nice boy, taken to the work well. Though they generally have nothing bad to say about one of their own; they’re very protective.

Then there’s Zachariah who – according to Jo – made a bigger mess of the sails than they were in to begin with and Uriel who – according to Bobby – complained of working long hours in the sun.

Admittedly working the windlass can be hard graft, but the man looked big enough to handle it. Plus he seemed like an ass; a pompous dick who needed to be taken down a peg or several. Dean may be a little more lenient than most pirate Captains, but he’s _petty_ , frequently consigning crew members who have annoyed him to the worst tasks on the ship even when it’s not their turn.

There have to be some perks of being a Captain, after all.

Finally there’s Azure-cerulean eyes, whose name Dean already knows, but hasn’t yet used in anyone else’s presence. The man will give it up in his own time.

Yet another choice Dean can bestow upon him to go some way to make up for his unwanted intrusion into the scientist’s life. He can be magnanimous as well as petty.

Garth chuckles disbelievingly, eyes searching the scores of pirates seated, finally clicking with Dean’s, silently asking if everyone is being serious with their lack of ability to interpret the mush in front of them. Dean gives a small nod. “If you wouldn’t mind sharing what the fuck this is with us Garth. That is, if you know yourself.”

The whole room breaks up into laughter, hoots and caterwauls reverberating off the wooden walls.

Even Garth manages to choke out a laugh and he waits a few moments until the noise has died down before he licks his lips and speaks, “It’s err, turtle.”

There are low groans and the sound of pewter plates being pushed across the timber tables, above which, Rufus’s cry of, “I told you Singer, now pay up!” can be heard.

Dean is officially _done_ for the day.

 

***

 

Dean can never decide whether he prefers the sea at night or during the day. The reflection of the stars in still black waters is mesmeric, as is the sight of the silvery backs of swordfish under a liquescent blanket… but the blue that follows the sunrise is something he’s inexplicably drawn to.

Either way, in the moment, he’s content. This is his version of finding peace and it’s the one remaining luxury he allows himself.

He’s at the prow of the ship, sitting astride the bowsprit, drinking from an earthenware beer bottle and behind him there’s the recurrent eruption of raucous laughter from below deck, cracking the night, threatening to split the silent sky in half, as the crew enjoy themselves after a hard days’ work, drinking more than their weight in alcohol as they place dice or cards.

He must have been alone for a good while when he hears a set of footsteps cautiously approach. None of his crew would be that careful; they’re much more of the ‘trampling/stomping’ variety so he already knows it has to be one of the _Granada_ ’s crew.

Dean is proven correct when the low gravelly voice he’s come to associate with Azure-cerulean eyes, asks “Beer?” a hint of skepticism seeping through the words.

“Water goes stale. Beer keeps.” Dean replies taking another swig. “Plus, it’s easier to eat the food when you’re drunk.”

“Can’t argue there.” The scientist appears in Dean’s line of sight, to the left, holding what is probably rum in a clear green bottle. He raises his arm, holding it out to Dean, the neck grasped in slim but strong-looking fingers. “Your boatswain gave me this. Said I’d be needing it.”

Dean remains silent and doesn’t reach for the proffered drink, once again turning his attention to the ocean. A decent amount of time passes in silence before the other man finally breaks it with a frustrated-sounding sigh and, “I don’t understand what it is that you want?”

“Some peace and quiet. But apparently that’s not going to happen.” He turns to the scientist, swinging his right leg over the bowsprit, twisting his body, so that he’s now sideways on the thing, fully facing the other man, bottle held between his thighs. He gestures between himself and the other man. “So you tell me. What do _you_ want?”

The scientist cocks a brow in a way that is so similar to Jo that for a second, Dean has to wonder if there’s some kind of scorn conspiracy against him. “Don’t ask stupid questions if you don’t want me to think you stupid, Captain.”

Dean waves a hand in a vague ‘bleh’ gesture. “You know what I meant.”

“After one day? I hardly think so. You’re a difficult one to pin down.”

Of course, Dean is only human, and they’ve been at sea for quite some time with no stops – the next one is charted for another six days away in Tortuga – so he cannot be held responsible for how he interprets Azure-cerulean eyes’ words and the images that accompany them.

Something must show on his face though, because those eyes are narrowing at him, revulsion and contempt palpable, and it does nothing but make Dean smile internally, mind whirring, searching for ways to play this interruption to his personal time to his advantage.

He settles on meeting the other man’s disgusted gaze, licking his lips lasciviously, looking for a reaction that he knows he is going to get.

And the scientist doesn’t disappoint, flushing a shade of red that, even in the pale light of the moon, Dean can see high on his cheekbones and he flails, clearly upset at Dean’s lack of decorum. Decorum and modesty are exclusively reserved for those who don’t spend months at a time on an 80 foot vessel with over 60 men – and a woman – who have no concept of privacy. The sooner the man learns that, the better. But for now, he’s providing Dean with a good source of entertainment. “You -- animal!”

Rather than getting angry this time; feeling distinctly in control now, Dean huffs out a laugh instead, finding amusement in the other man’s discomfort. “You’re probably right,” he admits, lifting the bottle to his lips, “but you keep coming back for more.”

The scientist flounders for a few seconds and Dean secretly revels in yet another victory. Twice in as many days; it has to be some kind of record. “I do not!” He splutters, limbs jerky, embarrassment obvious in every awkward movement he makes. “I came out here to ask you something important!”

“You did?” Dean leers, enjoying this far more than he probably should, but he’s almost past the point of not caring; instead at the sloppy stage between sobriety and drunkenness, and it feels rather good when teamed with the buzz he’s getting from this little back and forth. “Well I should tell you right now that you’re not my normal type, but it _has_ been a while, so I’d be a fool to turn you down.” It’s only a half-lie.

The scientist makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and for a second – just one – Dean thinks that he’s going to get a bottle thrown at his head. He almost hopes for it, just to see the panic bleed into those eyes - see if they change color, whether or not they transform into a shade that Dean can name - once the scientist realizes that he tried to assault the pirate Captain in charge of the ship he’s currently on.

But he seems determined to keep his cool better than he did this morning. Which will just not do at all.

“Shall I take your stony silence as a yes?”

“No!” The scientist hisses, anger swelling and breaking and Dean flashes a grin, one Jo has labelled as his most obnoxious, as he slides sinuously off the bowsprit and leans against it, crossing his legs over at the ankles. “There aren’t words in the English language that can convey how much I despise you, _pirate_!”

Dean clucks his tongue, shaking his head sadly. “Careful, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

The response is instantaneous, predictable and as hate-filled as the scientist can muster, “As if you have any! You’re a heartless excuse for a human being, and I doubt you’ve ever felt anything beyond greed or self-interest!”

This is seriously dangerous territory they’re entering now and Dean can feel himself tense with the weight of the words thrown at him. He knows that it’ll be safer to either walk away or to threaten the scientist into submission, but for some reason that he’ll almost certainly spend the next week trying to figure out, he does neither.

“That’s very interesting.” He pushes away from the bowsprit, moving slowly and deliberately towards the scientist who is visibly trembling now. Whether it’s with fear or anger, or a mixture of the two, Dean isn’t sure, but as he stops next to the other man who has bravely – or foolishly – stood his ground, he can tell that no matter what, he’s going to have a fight on his hands.

Dean drops his voice to barely above a whisper, breath ghosting over the shell of the scientist’s ear, relishing the little shiver he gets in return. “Because I could say the exact same thing about you Dr. Novak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late, too many things happening at once irl.
> 
> Anyways, this is the last 'quiet' chapter for a bit, so I hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> And thanks for all your support in the form of kind comments and stuff. As always, it's appreciated.

Castiel isn’t sure how long he stands there, held in place by the contempt in the Captain’s words. The _pirate_ Captain’s words. He’s being judged by someone who steals and kills – and is actually _proud_ of it – for a living. To say that it’s vexing is more than an understatement.

He absently reaches for the wedding band that is no longer on his finger, wanting to feel the smooth warm metal under his fingertips, but instead is reminded once again that he’s had _everything_ taken from him now; he has nothing left and no way of getting it back.

For a – very – brief moment, he considers throwing himself overboard. Not with the vacant hope of escape, but with the intent of suicide. He’d once overheard a sailor from the navy describing it like ‘falling asleep suspended in time’, which didn’t – and still doesn’t – really make a lot of sense to Castiel, but it sounds quite beautiful and infinitely more dignified than the fate that almost certainly awaits him if he stays on board.

No. It’s never been an option before and it’s not about to become one now.

The sounds of pirates enjoying themselves are slowly winding down, as they gradually pass out one-by-one after a night of excess, and Castiel wonders which ones are unfortunate enough to have drawn sentry duty. He could probably outfight the old one; the one Gabriel worked with this afternoon, but the younger one with the southern accent would be harder to overcome.

Though it hardly matters, because what would his plan be after that? Overpower the guards and then what? There has to be at least 50 pirates on board, he can’t fight all of them. Maybe take the Captain hostage? That would involve being close to the man – and he uses that word in the absolute broadest sense – which, just thinking about it, makes Castiel’s skin crawl.

The man may be attractive to ridiculous proportions, but his personality is a nice reminder that things that are pretty on the outside are often rotten on the inside.

And Captain Dean Winchester is rotten to the core.

 

***

 

Morning soon rolls around, though it makes little difference to Castiel who has spent most of the night in a fitful half-sleep, nightmares plaguing his slumber as well as his waking moments.

The breakfast is, once again, an abomination that Castiel doesn’t even attempt to navigate. He’s too tired to fight his way through the tough, rubbery substance on his plate that smells vaguely of tuna, that couldn’t actually be tuna because tuna is a fish, and whatever is on his plate has never been even distantly related to a fish.

He sits quietly whilst the others from the _Granada_ talk of their duties – or in the case of Zachariah and Uriel, complain – and despite the unfortunate situation they’ve found themselves in – which is another load of guilt for Castiel to bear, because now he’s certain that the Captain came for _him_ especially – everyone seems remarkably positive. Whether it’s a surviving mechanism or not, Castiel isn’t sure, but he does know this; the _Impala_ is making port in Tortuga within the week. If the Captain really thinks that he’s going to hang on to his captives there, then he’s either stupid or sorely mistaken. It’ll take a little planning, but Castiel is sure that he would be able to get everyone safely away from this slave labor and back home.

He’s so lost in his plans of escape that he doesn’t notice Gabriel’s questioning gaze flicking between him and the Captain, nor the expression slowly forming on his face, the one that he gets when he’s piecing a puzzle together with the incorrect bits.

“What’s going on with you and Captain Handsome over there?”

Castiel is pulled out of his reverie on Gabriel’s third ask, realizing that he’s the one the question is aimed at. “Pardon?”

“You heard.” He inclines his head in the direction of the Captain’s table, “he keeps looking over at you. Care to tell me why?”

“I do not.” Castiel sniffs haughtily. He has no desire to talk to or about the pirate who is solely responsible for this situation and won’t even tell Castiel _why_.

A blinding smile breaks out on Gabriel’s face, “I didn’t think you had it in you,” he mops up the goop on his plate with a wedge of bread and shoves it into his mouth, chewing loudly. Of course Gabriel would like the muck they serve on this ship; in the few weeks that he and Castiel were colleagues rather than fellow captives, it was discovered that Gabriel ate almost anything. “Or did the Captain have it in him?”

Castiel doesn’t need to pretend to be horrified and the repulsion that Gabriel’s words elicit must show, because Gabriel’s eyes widen and he holds his hands up in a gesture of supplication. “I apologize, Castiel. I just thought –“

“Well you thought wrong.” Castiel snaps, nausea still roiling in his stomach at the thought of being within several feet of the Captain at the moment, let alone… _that_.

Gabriel clears his throat, eyes darting away. “What are your plans for today? Has the Captain decided upon an appropriate task for you?”

In a rare display of humanity – the motives of which Castiel is now seriously questioning – he was given a choice yesterday. And a choice between food and his research is a tough one indeed; he needs both to survive. One nourishes his body, the other, his mind.

However, thanks to the Captain’s little dig last night, Castiel knows _exactly_ which option the pirate would rather he choose. Which is also the same reason he believes that he is here. Though what a pirate Captain could possibly want with a specialist scientist such as Castiel, is one of the many things that had kept him tossing and turning in his bunk last night.

It’s still a question without an answer.

Whatever the reason, the Captain isn’t going to get it without a fight.

It's with that motive in mind that he announces – a little louder than necessary – that he’s going to do the exact opposite. It’s pure malice and spite, but if the Captain is going to employ deception tactics and play childish games, then Castiel is too.

Though he doesn’t miss the Captain’s half-smirk as he makes his way through the galley to the kitchen, and his mind immediately starts turning, wondering just what the bastard thinks he’s won this time.

He doesn’t have to wait long for the answer, because the cook in the frighteningly dirty apron – which was almost certainly stolen from a wealthy house somewhere – greets him with an overly-enthusiastic smile and says, “Hello Dr. Novak, the Cap’n said that you’d be joining me today and told me to do whatever you say, so,” he gestures to the tiny space where there are several large cast iron Dutch ovens suspended over charred areas in the middle of a rectangular sandbox, “what do you need me to do, sir?”

Several thoughts occur to Castiel at once and it’s hard to answer the pirate when anger and confusion are warring for dominance.

His voice is tight when he responds. “You were expecting me?”

The cook swallows hard and Castiel feels a tiny pinprick of guilt. Aside from the Captain, the rest of the _Impala_ crew haven’t seemed like a bad bunch – for pirates, that is – and he’s aware that a whole bushel can’t be judged on one bad apple, but he’s tired, hungry and now utterly pissed off, so he adds, tone curt and brooking no argument, “tell me exactly what your Captain said. Or I will poison the whole ship.”

He wouldn’t, but that’s not the point.

“Err,” the pirate falters momentarily, “basically what I just told you. To be expectin’ you and to do as I’m bid. He didn’t say anything else. I swear.”

Castiel narrows his gaze, searching for any signs of deception. Upon finding none, he sighs and rolls his eyes, resigning himself to the fact that he and the pirate Captain are going to be having another talk _very_ soon. “Fine. What’s on the menu for tonight?”

“Meat.” The cook replies, “even though it was salted before we left port, it’s starting to look a little tatty around the edges. Best to eat it before it goes completely.”

 

***

 

Castiel is on his knees on the top deck, hauling the bucket filled with pewter plates back over the starboard side of the ship, when he hears the dull thud of heavy boots and then a shadow stretches over him, blocking out the warmth of the sun at his back.

“Can I help you?” He asks, all business, tone not giving anything away.

“Garth says that you’re doing a fantastic job.”

Castiel has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from telling the Captain what he really wants to, which is somewhere in the vicinity of ‘fuck off and die.’ He can feel the bile rising at the back of his throat, acrid and thoroughly unpleasant – much like the pirate standing over him.

“Good,” He replies curtly, desperately trying to keep his cool, “he’s certainly one of the more pleasant people aboard this ship.”

He doesn’t need to turn around to know that the Captain is almost certainly grinning his maddening, self-assured grin, which Castiel will one day take great pleasure in wiping off that stupid face. “I can’t imagine who you could possibly be referring to. Everyone aboard this ship is a decent man, well worth his salt.”

“I beg to differ. Maybe the crew is acceptable, but their Captain is far from it.” Before the pirate can interrupt, Castiel continues as he stands and faces his captor – to look at him in any other light, i.e. as a person who can be reasoned with is just not an option anymore, “And there is nothing at this stage that would convince me otherwise. To attempt it would be an exercise in futility.”

The Captain doesn’t look in the slightest bit surprised or even affected by Castiel’s words and Castiel supposes that this is what someone with no soul looks like. Beneath the charming wit, the startling good looks and cunning mind there is nothing. No heart, no feeling, _nothing_.

Castiel may physically have nothing – anything of value cruelly taken from him, and not just by these pirates – but he still has purpose, still has a reason to keep drawing breath. The Captain does not; he fights for no noble cause, nothing that matters, and that is what will ultimately be his demise.

And it will be Castiel who brings it about.

“What color would you say your eyes are?”

From the myriad of responses that Castiel had been anticipating, this wasn’t one of them and it takes him a few moments to gather his wits enough to answer.

“Are you being facetious or do you really not know? Were you not taught colors in pirate school? Do you spend your days not knowing what color the sea is?”

Silence greets his sarcasm.

After a few awkward moments, Castiel relents, eager to have this conversation over with. “Fine. They’re blue.”

“I know _that_. I meant what shade?”

Castiel frowns. This is really too bizarre and he has no idea what angle the Captain is going for or what he’s hoping to achieve from this exchange. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

The Captain crosses his arms across his broad chest, showcasing muscular biceps beneath a thin linen shirt and taps a finger against his chin, considering. “Is there a valid reason you decided to go for kitchen duty rather than your research?”

Castiel speaks before he thinks, a trait he was often chastised for as a child. “The food is awful.”

“That _is_ a valid reason.” The Captain concedes, “However, you and I both know that it’s not the one I’m looking for.”

And then Castiel has a strange crystalizing moment where he realizes exactly where the land lies.

The Captain thinks he knows about Castiel, has done research on him, has tracked him down. To what end is as yet unclear, but either way, the pirate has clearly gone to a massive amount of effort to find and capture Castiel. He _needs_ Castiel, and no matter what he says, there’s not a chance that he’s going to risk letting Castiel slip through his fingers.

Castiel has the power. He may be trapped on this ship against his will, but he has more freedom right now than the Captain.

He feels almost giddy with the insight, which is one of the reasons he decides to grab the opportunity with both hands now before he remembers where he is, and thinks better of it. “I’ll make you a deal.”

The Captain shakes his head softly, laughing to himself. “Only two days on board and you’re already acting like a proper pirate. It’s inspiring, truly.”

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

“What’s the deal you’re proposing?”

“I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you tell me what I want to know.”

Castiel sees the tick of muscle in the Captain's neck when he clenches his jaw, “Be more specific.”

“I’ll let you ask me anything. In exchange I want you to answer my question.”

“I don’t know where you got the impression that this is a quid pro quo situation, but I have ways – most less pleasant than this – of getting the answers that I want.”

“You know Latin? Impressive for a heathen.” This is the situation outside the Captain’s dayroom all over again; Castiel doesn’t know what it is about the man that makes his blood roar so ferociously, he’s never been an angry or violent man, but this particular pirate seems to bring his own uncouth side to the surface.

The Captain’s tone has dropped at least an octave and he has moved into Castiel’s space, eyes dark and pure menace, suddenly lacking the playful attitude of moments ago. “It was not an idle threat, so do not treat it as such, Dr. Novak.”

Hoping that he hasn’t severely over-estimated his own importance to the Captain, Castiel leans in even closer, now able to count the freckles scattered across the Captain’s nose and the arch of his cheekbones, and he makes a point of looking the other man directly in those green eyes when he says, “I don’t doubt it, but until you decide to adopt those methods _– and we both know that you’re not going to, because you need me_ – this is your only option. I think I’m being exceptionally fair under the circumstances.”

The Captain draws back and for a second, Castiel would swear that he sees reluctant admiration on the pirate’s face, before it’s gone, replaced with a scowl. “What is your question?”

Castiel allows himself a small smile. `“Why did you track me down? What do you want from me?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Pick. One will answer the other.”

There’s a small pause where the pirate remains expressionless and then he says, as always. “No.”

Castiel shrugs helplessly. “Then we have nothing left to talk about.”

He stoops to pick up the bucket of – hopefully clean – plates and cutlery and turns to walk away, feeling victorious, even in the absence of a real win.

It’s only as he reaches the top of the steps leading down to the galley that he hears a southern drawl picked up and carried on the cool morning breeze, “If I didn’t know any better Captain, I’d say that you’re losing your touch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Mah Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter totally kicked my arse, so please be gentle. Any and all errors will be rectified A.S.A.P.  
> Thank you for all of your support, you wonderful, awesome people.

The trick to being a good pirate is knowing when to pick your battles.

For instance, Dean wouldn’t dream of taking on a fleet of navy vessels with only a row boat and harsh language.

So the same principal applies to his crew, which now includes Dr. Castiel Novak. Whether the scientist likes it or not.

To the untrained eye, it may look like Dean is hiding from Castiel. He’s not. He’s simply done with his words, choosing instead to _show_ the good doctor just how much better he and the rest of his crew from the _Granada_ have it aboard the _Impala_.

Tortuga in all its chaos is the perfect place for that.

Dean is sure that Dr. Novak will have designs on escape – will think that he has a chance – but Dean is happily looking forward to the expression on Castiel’s face when he realizes that not only can he not escape, but actually, _he doesn’t want to_.

And then Dean can finally start utilizing the scientist’s skills.

Of course, he could have just forced Castiel to do as he said from the beginning, but you can never trust someone who works for the sole purpose of death avoidance. Most people in that situation will say anything but their prayers, and the scientist is too smart to not at least attempt something.

No, seeing just how lucky he is that Dean isn’t quite the animal Castiel has him pegged to be, will be a much more effective way of bringing him close.

 

***

 

Tortuga is not an easy place to be if you’re not a pirate or in some way useful to a pirate.

Dr. Novak is quite noticeably neither a whore nor a merchant, which means that someone has to mind the scientist, lest he get killed or mistaken for a slave who has stolen his master’s nice clothes.

And being as it is Dean who saw fit to bring Castiel on board, well, it is Dean who ends up with his current perfect view of Castiel’s utterly petrified expression, as a buxom whore with bright red hair moves gracefully in front of him, trying to tempt, but seemingly getting nowhere.

Which is interesting.

The rest of the crew had scattered like excitable children as soon as the ship made land, each bolting off with their share of gold, happy to bury themselves in decadence for the next few days, whilst Dean – as always – is left with the task of restocking the ship with provisions, securing deals with merchants and just about squeezing in enough time to bury himself in some decadence of his own.

His wench, Lisa, is a favorite of Dean’s; tan skin, big soulful brown eyes and long sleek hair combining in one beautiful-as-hell package that never fails to give Dean the time of his life, every time. Though in all honesty, even if she were a toothless old hag, it probably wouldn’t take a whole lot to get Dean going. A warm willing hole after so long at sea with a group of rough-as-fuck pirates is just that. And that’s really all Dean needs.

It may not be pretty or romantic, but it is what it is.

Though Lisa is pulling some of her best moves, Dean can’t help his gaze wandering back across to bench on the opposite side of the small-but-crowded room, where Castiel is perched awkwardly, eyes wide and panicked, expression still stricken and as Dean brings his tankard of ale to his lips, he smirks. Even immediately after his capture, the scientist had looked less frightened than this.

The whore finishes her dance and moves on to the next customer, a pirate who seems more than willing where Castiel wasn’t. Castiel picks up the drink Dean purchased for him when they arrived, and downs it rapidly, throat undulating as he swallows. He bangs the empty pewter tankard down on the wooden table to his left and wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

Dean throws on his best smirk and rises, slipping a couple of gold coins into Lisa’s palm as he pushes past, eager to get to Castiel and begin his taunts.

He drops down into the seat opposite with a heavy thud and leans across the yard or so between them. “If I’d have known that all it took to keep you in line was a woman with loose morals, I would have persuaded Jo to dress in some skirts and dance for you.” He sits back again, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Dean doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s lip starts curls up into a small smile before he cuts it off, replaced with his usual surly glower. “You’re a brave man saying that when I can relay it back to her later.”

Dean’s smirk widens, but he says nothing, leaning back in the chair, wood creaking as he stretches, waiting several moments before breaking the peace between them with, “Tell me, what _exactly_ was your plan?”

The scientist’s brow creases in confusion as if he genuinely doesn’t know what Dean is referring to. “What?”

“You think you can outsmart me, I’m sure. I’m advising you right now that you can’t. So tell me all about your plan of escape from an island filled to the brim with pirates a lot less amiable than me.”

Castiel crosses his arms across his chest like a petulant child and looks away. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

Dean chuckles, taking another swig of his beer, “I’ll make you a deal, being as you’re so fond of them. I’ll let you and your men go. You can stay here and find you own way home as long as you tell me what I need to know beforehand.”

The look of hope on Castiel’s face is a stark reminder of what Dean has to lose if this all backfires. It’s the only thing of import that he has left to lose anymore.

“How do I know that you’re telling the truth?”

“I’m a man of my word.” Usually.

Castiel scoffs, but keeps his peace as he considers the offer. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“I want to know where La Isla de las Cruces is.”

In the seconds of silence that follow, Castiel runs the full gamut of emotion, steaming right through surprise and disbelief, settling on somewhere between contempt and confusion. He drags his tongue over his chapped bottom lip before he speaks. “The Island of Crosses? Why would you want to know that?”

Dean finishes the dregs of his beer, smacking his lips together with a satisfied, ‘ahh’. It’s nothing more than a show of bravado, underplaying his hand so that Castiel won’t catch on. “What difference does it make to you?”

Somewhere behind them a woman screams and a man laughs. A split second later the crack of a slap echoes around the hushed quiet of the room. When nothing else follows, the noise levels resume, everyone satisfied that the woman took care of her business.

Castiel shakes his head, more to himself than Dean. “Souls that want to be damned go there.”

“I’m aware.” Dean replies smoothly, offhand. It’s an understatement.

Castiel tilts his head like he’s trying to get a read on Dean, trying to _understand_ him, trying to fathom out the reasons someone would be this blasé about something so sinister. “You realize that if I did know – and I’m not saying whether I do or not – if I then told you, I’d be condemning you and your entire crew to death? And whilst I don’t care much for you, I cannot in good faith, allow you to go ahead on a journey that will see their souls damned for eternity.”

He clearly knows the subject matter well, which is one of the many reasons Dean had picked Dr. Novak for this, but he’s sailing close to the wind with his last statement, and it’s not a path they can continue down.

So, with a small sigh, Dean once again braces himself for the bile that is about to be flung in his direction. Things were going so amicably too. “I’m not sure I see your reluctance. This would not be the first time that you have killed in order to get something you want. Why would now be any different?”

Castiel’s eyes turn positively arctic, his whole demeanor shifting, poised to strike. “I don’t know what it is you think you know about me –“

Dean cuts him off, not wanting to hear the lie, “I don’t think I know. I do know. And I may be a pirate, but I’ve never sold out one of my own to further my personal interests. Despite whatever impressions to the contrary you may have.”

For an instant, the scientist just sits there, mouth hanging open, seemingly at a loss for what to say. Eventually he responds in a way similar to how Dean himself would, fury burning brightly behind his eyes as he spits out a venomous, “Fuck you.”

Dean tuts, shaking his head, unable to help himself from stoking the flames. “I don’t know what privileged school you were lucky – or perhaps ruthless – enough to attend, but I’m sure you didn’t learn language like that there.”

It’s about then that Dean is made aware of just how irate Castiel is, because this time Dean _does_ get a bottle – snatched from a nearby table – launched at his head. Unfortunately, it quickly becomes apparent that aiming is not one of the scientist’s talents, and so it goes sailing right over Dean, neatly missing several smaller men, and instead smashing into a thousand tiny pieces against the skull of the biggest bastard in the place.

A stunned silence quickly falls over the entire brothel and Dean turns back to face Castiel, whose expression is quickly morphing into one of horror, and simply mouths, “Really?”

“Oh.”

Whilst being ready for a fight is an inherent part of being a pirate, Dean rarely starts one without good reason and so he's not entirely thrilled to be involved in the one that's almost certainly about to erupt.

The man – behemoth is perhaps a more accurate description – that the good doctor saw fit to assault with a bottle, begins storming his way over to Dean and Castiel with the air of someone who’s used to his opponent backing down.

Dean is not a coward and will not be intimidated by someone who he could outmaneuver simply by producing something shiny. He rises from his seat as he draws his sword, turning to face the man properly and effectively shielding Castiel without really thinking about it.

He’d like to say that it’s for purely mercenary reasons, but it’s more instinctive than that; something that runs a little deeper than pure selfish intent.

He can feel Castiel at his back, close enough that his warm breath curls over Dean’s ear when he murmurs, voice quiet. “I know you think yourself the terror of the high seas, Captain, but do not be foolhardy.”

Dean lets a crooked grin stretch his lips, not taking his eyes off the big bald man steam-rolling his way through men in his path. “I didn’t know you cared, Dr. Novak.”

“I don’t,” Castiel says quickly, “but I have a strong sense of self-preservation and if you die, well there’s a good chance I won’t be far behind.”

The trick to being a good pirate is knowing when to pick your battles.

“That’s an accurate assumption,” Dean says, “but you were the one who threw the bottle in the first place, what makes you think that I won’t just hand you over? Save myself the trouble. Because really,” he sheathes his cutlass again, wiggling his fingers at the behemoth, showing himself to be empty-handed, relishing Castiel’s sharp intake of breath. “Why would I bother to put myself at risk for _you_?”

“You need me.” Castiel insists, sounding like he’s asking as much as he’s telling. “ _You need me_.”

“Not anymore. You won’t tell me where The Island of Crosses is. I don’t need you anymore than I need a fight with this giant here.” He flashes a smile in the direction of said giant, carefully eyeing the man whose fingers are almost the width of the doctor’s wrists, his neck easily as thick as Castiel’s thigh. “You’re on your own Dr. Novak.”

He goes to remove himself from between Castiel and his aggressor, but then he feels slim, strong fingers digging into the muscle of his forearm, beseeching without the scientist needing to say a word. But he does anyway. “I’ll tell you. Just… don’t make me beg.”

The image of Castiel on his knees begging, well, that is something worth exploring – at a later date when their lives aren’t in imminent danger from someone who could probably consume an entire whale for breakfast and still have room for more.

“I have no problem with you, pretty boy.” The man’s voice is alcohol-thick when he comes to a stop in front of Dean, stinking rather potently of beer and sweat. “Step aside.”

Castiel’s fingers still haven’t let go, squeezing tighter and tighter as the huge pirate leers in a way that makes Dean’s skin crawl. He draws his sword again. “I apologize for my friend’s behavior. It was an accident and he’d be happy to recompense you with alcohol.” It’s worth a try, even though he already knows what the answer will be.

“I don’t understand at least half of what you said. But no.”

Dean shrugs indifferently, though inwardly he’s wishing that he had his crew at his back instead of a scientist who may well stab him in it.

The first clash of steel against steel breaks the tense silence, setting teeth on edge with the sharp scrape that cuts through the cloyingly dense air. Gargantuan thrusts his sword towards Dean’s gut, missing only by inches because Dean dodges adroitly, managing to dart backwards, narrowly avoiding trampling Castiel’s feet.

Dean swings back, a graceful arcing slash that sees him catch the behemoth across the left bicep, a spill of red blooming underneath his checked linen shirt. The man hisses between clenched teeth, the sudden pain making him stupid, and his next swipe is a sloppy one that Dean easily parries, bringing his blade up to defend and then quickly attack, this time slicing a curved wound beneath the giant’s right pectoral muscle.

The curse-blessing with pirates is that once any kind of fight breaks out, it very rapidly descends into a free-for-all; every man drunk on bloodlust and seeking out the nearest easy cure. Right now, it’s perfect; the focus has been taken off Dean and his opponent, stolen by the massive brawl that breaks out to their left, the familiar crack of wood breaking across skulls and spines a comforting one.

Dean doesn’t lose _his_ focus though. There’s more riding on this fight than just his pride, so he keeps swinging, settling into the right mindset, getting into the rhythm of battle amongst the pandemonium.

The unmistakable tang of blood stains the atmosphere a pretty red copper color, but Dean feels no pain. Even if he’s been cut, he still won’t. Not until the adrenaline wears off and then the hot agony will come rushing in thick and fast.

It isn’t until he hears Castiel’s anguished cry from behind him that Dean registers just how outmanned he is. It doesn’t mean that he plans on losing though.

“This is bullshit.” He draws his pistol, tugging it from his leather belt and shoving it in the man’s sweaty, ruddy face. He thumbs back the hammer. “I will put this bullet in your brain if you don’t back down.”

The man stops dead, going comically cross-eyed as he stares down the barrel of Dean’s pistol, the fight raging out-of-control around them; sweaty bodies grappling, swords clashing, blood gushing.

“We are done here.” Dean intones, backing away slowly, keeping his weapon trained on the other pirate, hastily shoving his cutlass into Castiel’s hand, using his own to grip the scientist’s wrist tightly – to the point of pain if the little aggrieved squeak Castiel emits is any indication.

Before he knows it, they’re tumbling out backwards into the lowly-lit, paved street and marginally fresher air. Dean gulps it down like water as he uncocks his pistol and replaces it in his belt. His heart is thundering in his ears and he can feel Castiel’s frantic pulse jack-rabbiting under his fingertips. Fingertips which are still wrapped around the scientist’s wrist.

He flings Castiel’s hand away like a hot coal and snatches back his cutlass, busying himself with sheathing the blade, needing a few moments of distraction to pull himself together. Confrontation always gets his blood pumping in a multitude of ways and that teamed with the man who both infuriates and fascinates him in equal measure? It wouldn’t end well for either of them. Not in the long term anyway.

When he finally manages to look up again, Castiel is staring past Dean, azure-cerulean eyes wide and focused on the splintered timber door of the brothel. “Shouldn’t we be running right about now?”

Dean’s reply comes out gruffer than he intends, “They won’t follow us.”

Castiel looks at him then, eyes drawn to Dean’s left shoulder, which come to think of it, _is_ throbbing dully. “How can you be so sure?”

“Trust me.” Dean murmurs, only half-sincerely, expecting the usual caustic rejoinder. Almost looking forward to it in fact, desperately needing to restore the natural order of things in the face of whatever _this_ is.

It never comes. Replaced instead with uneasy silence and Castiel’s unrelenting gaze; a stifling  almost-physical presence on Dean’s face, blue eyes burning into his skin, as if the scientist is hoping that he might find the answers to the questions he daren’t voice written in the constellation of Dean’s freckles.

Dean loosely gestures up the street and before he can check to see if Castiel is following, he wordlessly begins walking in the direction of Ellen’s tavern. Seconds later, the scientist falls into step beside him, stealing glances at Dean, apparently intent on making him feel as uncomfortable as possible.

If Castiel is testing out a new method for making Dean’s life more difficult, then it’s certainly working.

Dean clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness before it threatens to spill over into something that he’s not entirely ready to address. “Still want me to leave you here?”

He glances at the scientist out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of the comprehension that flits across handsome features, the keystone falling into place, and Dean grins inwardly, pleased that with a minimum amount of finagling, Castiel is coming around to the idea that Dean, his crew and ship really _are_ the lesser of two evils.

“Better the devil you know, eh Cas?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas is totally meeting the family here. Awwwwwwwh!
> 
> Comments and stuff give me a serious case of the happys and so thank you to all of you wonderful people who are taking the time out to do it. I could kiss you all!

The Captain’s eyes are a more vibrant green than Castiel has ever seen them; lively emerald glinting under each circle of lantern light they walk through, contrasting with the grays and yellows of the island in such a striking way that Castiel is having serious difficulty averting his gaze.

Of course, the fact that it is making the pirate squirm is just a bonus.

“Where are we going?” Castiel finally asks, ploughing right past the stupid nickname that Captain has bestowed upon him, and choosing to completely ignore his smugly asked question. He’s not sure how to answer it anymore.

The pirate Captain is an abhorrent man. There had been no question of that in Castiel’s mind. At least until that fight – a fight that Castiel caused – when the Captain not only seemed to go above and beyond to keep Castiel safe, but fought with an edge of desperation that indicated he’s used to losing. Not the fights themselves, no; the Captain’s skill with a cutlass in his hand is to be revered, but there was something else in Captain Winchester’s experienced movements that spoke of unmitigated defeat.

Castiel can still feel the phantom touch of the pirate’s fingertips pressing bruises into his skin. He absently rubs at his wrist, trying to chase away the sensation.

The Captain notices, long eyelashes grazing over freckles as he glances in Castiel’s direction, before his gaze skitters away again, turning his attention to each loud tavern/brothel/pub that they pass. Castiel briefly wonders if this entire island made up of beer and loose women.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

The words are softly spoken with a note of sincerity that Castiel isn’t used to hearing from the pirate. It sets his teeth on edge with the earnestness of it.

“Which time? The time you kidnapped me or the time you bodily dragged me away from a fight?” His bitter reply cuts right through their tenuous truce, effectively throwing the words back at the Captain in a way that seems to redress the balance.

Rather than hurt, the Captain looks grateful for Castiel’s return to form. “Either-or.” Before Castiel can respond, the pirate inclines his head in the direction of a quaint looking tavern painted in black and white that somehow seems less boisterous than the others. “That is Harvelle’s Tavern. It belongs to Jo’s mother.”

Castiel is taken aback. Surely no good parent would want their child – especially such a beautiful young women as Jo – sailing the seas with a bunch of reprobates. He’d assumed all of the pirates aboard the _Impala_ would be loners; men without families or people who truly cared for them, doomed for a life of piracy, because they had nothing else.

The Captain shoves the door open, making the rusty hinges creak as he dithers, looking like he’s on the verge of allowing Castiel to go ahead of him, before he thinks better of it, going inside and letting the solid wood fall closed on Castiel, catching him in the chest and almost knocking the wind out of him.

Now, that’s more like the Captain Dean Winchester that Castiel knows and loathes.

The place is damn-near empty, save for a few bodies gathered at the bar, some of whom turn around when the Captain and he enter. It’s Jo, the sailing master – Benny? – Gabriel and Michael.

Which is odd. His original plan of escape – which in all fairness had fallen to pieces the moment the Captain refused to let Castiel out of his sight – entailed Michael teaming with Zachariah, and Gabriel with Uriel. Samandriel – to everyone’s surprise – had elected to stay with the _Impala_.

“Captain Dean Winchester, so glad you saw it fit to finally grace us with your presence!” A middle-aged woman with ash blond hair and an attractive, but fierce face – the kind that doesn’t tolerate nonsense from fools – steps out from behind the wooden curve of the bar and makes a beeline for the two of them, striding past the empty tables and chairs, purpose clear in her mind.

Rather than stopping when she reaches the Captain, she keeps going, strong-arming him into an embrace, pulling him tight against her shapely body. Even more bizarrely, he seems to respond; not just allowing it to happen, but actually hugging her in return, his arms circling around her waist.

Castiel barely captures the whispered, “How are you holdin’ up, darlin’?” But he does and it only serves to fuel the confusion that is slowly becoming his constant state of mind. She clearly cares for the Captain, but why? Could it be that he’s wrong about in his initial assessment of the pirate? Are things ever that black and white?

“I’m fine, Ellen. Honestly.”

She pulls away and her eyes catch and stick on the wound still trickling blood from the Captain’s shoulder. “You don’t look fine to me. What happened?”

“Fight,” the Captain shrugs, clearly suppressing a wince at the tremor of pain that the action no doubt incites. “Dr. Novak has a shit aim.” It’s muttered in exasperated fondness, like one would use for a friend rather than a captive, and Castiel’s frown deepens.

The pain must be making the pirate lightheaded.

“Ah, Dr. Novak!” She smiles warmly, effortless and genuine. “I hear you’re the one to come to if Dean needs putting in his place?”

Once again, Castiel showcases his inability to think before he speaks, “ _If_ Dean – _the Captain_ – needs putting in his place? Are you implying that it's ever not the case?”

Ellen throws her head back, howling with laughter as she slings an arm across Castiel’s shoulders, steering him back through the maze of chairs towards the bar. Once they’re a safe distance away from being overheard, she leans in closer to whisper conspiratorially in Castiel’s ear. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony by the way doctor. Call him Dean, we all do.”

Come to think of it, she’s right. Castiel has very rarely heard the title from Jo’s lips and with most of the Impala’s crew, it’s a fifty-fifty thing. The Captain never seems to mind.

“Alright, if you insist,” he manages a returning smile. Just one more way of defying the pirate captain. _Dean_.

“I like this one!” Ellen calls out as she bundles Castiel onto a wobbly stool in front of the sticky bar and slips behind it, reaching for a bottle of bourbon off one of the many shelves that are chock full of alcohol.

Castiel can hear the Cap – _Dean_ – grumbling out a string of curse words as he approaches, wedging himself between Castiel and Jo, who – along with the other three – is watching the exchange with barely disguised interest.

“Do you need me to clean that up?” She gestures to Dean’s shoulder wound, studying it, checking for any signs of infection no doubt.

“I can manage.” Is the gruff reply and he slings back the measure of amber liquid that Ellen places in front of him, before gesturing for another, which she grants with a stern look. “What I am more interested in at this moment in time is why you appear to have two extras with you.” He tilts his newly refilled glass in the direction of Gabriel and Michael, who seem completely at ease in the company of these pirates.

“Now that, I can explain.” It is _definitely_ Benny. Southern accent equals Benny. The old grouch is Bobby. Castiel is forever getting them mixed up. Benny seems nice enough. But then again, in different circumstances, they’d probably all be nice people. Dean _possibly_ included. “Jo and I caught sight of them getting themselves mugged by a group of Walker’s men. Had to step in, of course.”

“Of course.” Dean echoes, not even a hint of sarcasm. Castiel notices that it’s not asked whether punishment was meted out. It’s just assumed.

It also doesn’t explain where Uriel and Zachariah are.

“You really need to get that wound seen to before it festers,” Jo breaks into the quiet that follows, eyes lingering on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean sighs heavily, world-weary and thoroughly fed up as he bangs his now empty glass onto the bar with a hollow thud. Castiel barely manages to suppress a smile at the ridiculousness of a feared pirate Captain acting like a sullen child.

“If I do, will you be quiet?”

Castiel glances over at Ellen who isn’t bothering to suppress her smile, clearly used to this kind of bickering. The whole scene is close to becoming endearing.

“If you have supplies I can do it.” Castiel offers, before he really thinks about it. Mere hours ago, he would have baulked at helping Dean in any way, but now it seems like a decent thing to do. Benevolence seems like a valid option and it will serve as a good opportunity to get some questions answered in a situation where Dean can’t run away.

Dean raises an eyebrow and turns to face Castiel properly, his back to the others as he leans on his hip against the bar. “ _You_ are offering to help _me_?”

“Yes. In case it wasn't clear. Is that going to be a problem?”

 

***

 

Twenty minutes later sees them set up in one of Ellen’s pokey backrooms that holds the musty smell of old casks and the sweet tang of ale.

Dean sits below one of the lamps on a small three-legged stool in the center of the space, pouting, and it’s close to being one of the most absurd things Castiel has ever seen. On the small table to Dean’s left sits a bowl of hot water, a cloth, a pair of rusting scissors and a needle and thread.

It’s just him and Dean in the cramped room; the others still out by the bar, drinking and exchanging amusing stories if the frequent bursts of laughter from Ellen are any indication. It’s probably Gabriel; he has a knack for humor.

“You’re going to have to take your shirt off, Captain.” His voice comes out surprisingly steady considering his trepidation at being in such close proximity to a half-naked man as attractive as Captain Winchester.

Castiel can see the slight upturn in Dean’s lips before he replies with the usual smutty riposte that Castiel has almost come to expect. “If you wanted me naked, _doctor_ , you should have said. You didn’t need to go through this façade of helping me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but there’s no true annoyance there. A week ago, he would have been thoroughly outraged.

“I have no desire to see you unclothed,” which isn’t strictly true, “but I cannot sew you up through the bloody tatters of your shirt, so please just oblige me and _stop being such a pain in my ass.”_

Dean chuckles as he rises, straightening up, tugging the pale-colored shirt out from beneath his belt and then over his head, revealing acres of tanned and toned skin, the smooth muscles of his chest flexing in the dim light as he stretches, almost definitely putting on more of a show than is necessary, but Castiel can’t bring himself to say that he minds.

And then Dean is simply standing there, bare to his hips, a faint sheen of sweat coating the cut of his stomach, the jut of his hipbones. He’s all solid angles; no softness, just hard muscle and calloused skin from years spent at sea, hauling rigging and lugging equipment. And it’s too much. The atmosphere in the tiny room has changed, the air virtually crackling with static charge that Castiel has come to associate with the milliseconds before a storm; thick, heavy and tense.

Castiel has never been attracted to another man before – even though objectively he can appreciate all kinds of beauty – but there’s no denying that he’s beginning to wonder what he’s been missing for the last nine years.

It’s insanity, pure and simple, because there’s just no other explanation for how his knees have gone weak and why he has the sudden desire to know whether Dean tastes as good as he looks.

This time his voice doesn’t come out steady, “W-would you please sit down?”

Dean obliges, but Castiel doesn’t miss the little satisfied smirk playing on his lips. The very same lips that caused Castiel a distraction the first time that they argued. He inhales slowly, deeply and walks further into the room, closer into Dean’s personal space, trying to focus on anything other than the purely masculine scent of the sea and sweat clinging to Dean's skin. He sits down on the creaky oak chair that Ellen has provided, breath hitching in the back of his throat, conspiring with the erratic pounding of his heart to deprive him of air.

“So-- I’m going to clean your wound, then sew it up. It’s going to hurt, but it’s better than amputation.”

This close, he can feel the heat rolling off Dean and instinctively he leans in closer to the warmth, keen to share after so long without. With slightly shaking hands he reaches for the cloth, dunking it in the bowl of water and then wringing it out. He presses it to the wound, not missing Dean’s sharp intake of breath, and although the water isn’t as hot as he’d like, he doesn’t doubt that it stings.

“Is that okay?” Castiel murmurs. It’s not really a question, so much as an attempt to break the tension.

Rather than snark, Dean just nods. Castiel carries on dabbing at the wound, washing away the worst of the blood, dirty water running in rivulets down Dean’s bicep and dripping steadily onto the floorboards.

Once he’s satisfied that he’s done the best job possible, he drops the damp cloth into the bowl, and reaches for the needle and thread with slippery fingers. On the third failed attempt to thread the needle, Dean grins and reaches out to still Castiel’s hands, thumb absently rubbing over Castiel’s knuckles. “Dry your fingers and you might have better luck.”

Castiel huffs, but does as Dean suggests, wondering at what point he forgot to function correctly - though really, he's already got a pretty damn good idea.

He tries again with the needle and thread and manages to get it right on the first try. He doesn’t need to look at Dean to see the triumphant grin he’s sporting.

Dean hisses when the needle first drives through his skin, but Castiel doesn’t stop, scared of losing concentration, so he focuses hard on splicing Dean’s flesh back together, until he’s done and is snipping the end of the thread.

He reaches once again for the cloth, wiping away the tiny pinpricks of blood blooming below the black stitches.

“Do the others know about your suicidal trip?”

Dean arches an eyebrow. “The Island of Crosses?” At Castiel’s nod of confirmation, he continues, “No. And I don’t want them to either.” There’s a warning inherent in his words.

The question that pops into Castiel's mind springs unbidden out of his mouth, “Why? Your crew seem to respect you –“ Dean scoffs and Castiel smiles, patting the stitching dry. It’s completely unnecessary, but he isn’t ready to stop touching Dean just yet, “when it comes to the important things at least. Why not tell them?”

Dean exhales a shaky breath and lifts his other arm to run a hand through his short brown hair. “I don’t expect them to come with me. Onto the actual island I mean. It’s something I have to do. Nobody’s coming with me; I don’t want anybody else dying.”

There are several ways to interpret that last sentence. All of them paint Dean to be a better man than Castiel had originally thought. Which in and of itself isn’t hard, but Castiel finds himself thawing around Dean, seeing small glimpses of humanity well-buried beneath the rough layers of piracy and guile.

It’s for those very reasons that he says, “I’ll show you myself.” In reality he doesn’t have much of a choice; his option of staying on this island taken away by his own over-the-top actions and Dean seems determined to go for reasons that he’s keeping close to his well-muscled chest, so Castiel may as well be the one who shows him, lest Dean realize that he has no need for him anymore.

“You understand that this will make you a willing accomplice in my certain death?”

Castiel mimics Dean’s smug smirk, “That’s the only reason I’m doing it.”

He can see the acerbic retort that dies on the pirate’s tongue and is thankful the Captain elects not to say anything. A sensible decision what with Castiel having several sharp implements to hand.

Eventually he simply says, “Thanks Cas.”

Castiel is about to reply – either to tell Dean to never call him Cas again, or to say that he’s welcome – when Benny appears, head poking around the doorframe, cheeks flushed that tell-tale drunken pink.

“Can I bunk with you Captain?”

Dean reaches for his shirt and pulls it back on, none of the careful show of muscle and skin from before. “You’re staying here tonight?”

“I’m all spent up.”

Dean’s expression is incredulous. “Already?”

Benny looks sheepish. “Well, yes. Unless you have more gold you can give me?”

“I don’t.” Dean replies tiredly on a sigh. “I spent what I didn’t give to the rest of you on getting provisions for the ship.”

A thought occurs to Castiel that makes his blood freeze in his veins. “You’ve spent _all_ of the gold?”

Dean turns to him then, annoyance not aimed at Castiel, but still marring the features that Castiel was not-so-long-ago admiring. “It would certainly appear that way.”

The world tilts dangerously, dimming around the edges and Castiel suddenly feels sick. He’d known when his ring was taken that there was a chance he may never see it again, but with Dean’s recently discovered humanity, he’d hoped that the pirate may have been decent enough to eventually return it to him.

Apparently not.

He rises to his feet, unshed tears blurring his vision, embarrassment and anger at having been taken in by the Captain’s now-obvious attempts at deceit. He pushes past Benny, ignoring Dean’s confused voice calling out his name as he once again runs away from the source of his pain.

First impressions have never steered Castiel wrong before and this should have been no exception. The Captain is _exactly_ as callous as Castiel had initially thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Mah Tumbl-arrrh! ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/) (seewhatIdidthere? Comedic genius, I know.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly the gateway to the bigger plot, so there's a bit of angst coming up. 
> 
> Apologies for the lateness, but the next chapter should be up on Thursday as planned.
> 
> Thank you as always for the support guys, you're awesome.

Dean understands why Castiel is upset.

What he _doesn’t_ understand is why he should care. The problem is that for some inexplicable reason, he does.

Castiel always has been – and was always supposed to be – a means to an end.

But he’s more than that now; he’s a person, not just something to be used and with that admission comes the unwanted realization that Dean is truly fucked.

Benny is still standing in the doorway, eyeing Dean warily, like a caged animal, like he’s not sure what his Captain is going to do next, and it’s that care and caution that tips Dean over the edge of black and into red.

The final strand of his patience snaps and he’s left with nothing but anger, pulsing hot and thick like lava in his veins, every muscle in his body wound taut, fists clenching uselessly at his sides as he makes the split second decision to embrace rather than deflect.

“Fuck!” He doesn’t even try to hold back, immediately lunging for the nearest _thing_ and flips the square table over; sending the implements Castiel used flying in all directions. He barely notices; too busy launching the chair across the small empty space, watching in satisfaction as one of the legs splinters and cracks as it makes contact with the wall.

He doesn’t need to look at Benny to know that his blue eyes – and he knows _exactly_ what shade of blue – are wide with concern and maybe a little bit of fear. It doesn’t deter Dean from his rampage though; barely slows him down as he picks up the stool and smashes it against the floorboards, over and over again until it’s just the stump of a leg that he’s holding.

He hears Benny bite out a curse and then there’s nothing but silence, save for his own harsh breathing, chest heaving as he stands amidst the chaos he has created. The lantern light flickers, but ultimately stays alight. Dean wishes it would just go out; he’d feel better in the dark where nobody could see him.

He hears the rhythmic thumping of boots on wood indicating the arrival of others, but he doesn’t move, just focuses on balancing out his breathing, in and out, in and out, waiting out the anger, letting it dissipate from under his skin, seeping out of his pores along with the sweat.

“What the Hell?” It’s Jo’s voice, sounding both stern and concerned, just like her mother.

“Err,” Benny sounds nervous and Dean doesn’t really blame him; the crew _very_ rarely sees him lose his temper, “Castiel ran off and the Captain just lost it.”

He wants to shout – to scream in their faces – that it has nothing to do with Castiel, but it has absolutely _everything_ to do with him and Dean needs to deal with it before it gets even more out of hand. Though, surveying the mess he’s made, it’s looking like he’s galloped straight past that option.

“Dean?” Jo says tentatively. He can hear her draw closer, can tell exactly where she is by the creak of the floorboards. “When Benny says that all the gold is gone…” Jo has always been perceptive to the point of irritation and this occasion looks to be no different,  because she adds, “…does that include the ring you took from Dr. Novak?”

Dean lets out a laugh that seems hollow even to his own ears. A ring. _A fucking ring_. He had understood the inherent importance of the object when he relieved the scientist of it, but he didn’t think the man would be quite so upset. Rings can easily be made and there is nothing special about his.

“Does it matter?”

Jo is indignant. “To Castiel – Dr. Novak – I imagine it matters a great deal.”

Considering the moments leading up to this one, the words come easier than they should, “Fuck Dr. Novak.”

This is typically about the time that one of his crew – Jo usually – would try to lighten the mood by making some filthy innuendo, but the silence after Dean’s harsh statement remains, suffocating.

“I think you need to start telling us what the hell is going on Captain.” It’s spoken softly, but the will behind the words is iron; steadfast and determined. “Because I don’t believe for one second that our finding the doctor was accidental.”

 

***

He can tell as soon as he traipses back into the main bar of Harvelle’s, that Gabriel and Michael have been unfortunate enough to catch the largest portion of Dean’s little show. It could be the way that they try to subtly angle themselves away from Dean, or their wide eyes and glassy expressions, but there’s none of the friendly ease that he’d encountered a mere half an hour ago.

“Go find Castiel,” he mutters, not looking at them as he takes a seat at the bar. “He ran off out the back; probably hasn’t gone far.” At least that’s what Dean hopes, though he’s almost certain that the scientist isn’t stupid enough to run off in the hopes of finding help on this island. Dean is obviously a prick in Dr. Novak’s eyes, but he’s confident that Castiel still sees him as the lesser of two evils.

They’re almost too quick to comply, stumbling off their stools and nearly tripping over themselves in enthusiasm and they don’t look back as Jo points them in the right direction, shoving a couple of coins at them with the instructions to find somewhere to sleep for the night too.

Dean slumps over the bar, resting his forehead on his arms, breathing in the sickly scent of the mix of rum and beer that’s making the dark wood an inch from his nose sticky. It’s a comforting smell; one he’s familiar with. Unlike the territory he’s about to enter, if Ellen’s long-suffering sigh is anything to go by.

It’s Jo who decides to speak first, all no-nonsense, tone brooking no argument. “You need to start telling us what’s going on, Captain.”

No, he really doesn’t. What he _needs_ is to drink himself into a stupor and forget all about this. Even just for the time it takes to sober up. _Anything_ that grants him a reprieve from his own thoughts would be welcome.

Dean lets the seconds tick by, not moving, not saying a word. The pain in his shoulder has moved past a dull throb into full scale pain and he can just _tell_ that he’s popped the stitches, which would make him laugh hysterically if he could find the energy. Castiel would sooner stab him with rusty scissors than be that close to Dean again.

More time passes and Dean begins to think that this is a winning tactic; maybe if he ignores the others for long enough, they’ll agree that actually, they don’t want to know and leave him alone in his misery.

He’d have better a better chance in persuading Jo to sleep with him. Which is to say that Hell will freeze over first.

“When you were a little boy, you used to do that you know.” Ellen says eventually, voice firm and measured. “Bury your head like that. You thought that if you couldn’t see the world, then the world couldn’t see you.”

Dean doesn’t reply, just clenches his jaw, steeling for the part he knows comes next.

“But you stopped when Sam came along. I asked you why on one of your father’s visits here. You told me that it was because you didn’t ever want Sammy to think that you’d disappeared.”

And there it is.

Ellen lets out a little fond chuckle, not letting up, not giving in to Dean’s desire for this to not break the surface, “Child logic I suppose. But you were so adamant. You loved that boy.”

“Still do,” Dean rasps, lifting his head up, leaving the relative safety of the bar and his arms, and staring Ellen straight in the eye, almost daring her to say any different, even though he knows she won’t. Out of everybody here, he knows that she would be the last person to accuse him of not caring about Sam.

“Tell them Dean,” she says, eyes glimmering in the low light. “Let them help.”

“Nobody can help,” It’s a feeble protest, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

“Tell us _what_?” Jo’s frustration is equal to Benny’s bewilderment as she looks back and forth between them. “Mother? Dean?”

Dean sighs, defeated. It was bound to happen sooner or later. He could hardly sail to an island that none of them had ever heard of without the promise of gold or riches, on nothing but blind faith. It doesn’t mean that they are entitled to the full story though. “If I’m going to be doing this then I need a drink.”

Ellen nods, delicate smile gracing her pretty, but tired looking features and she turns to the shelved bottles of liquid, bringing down a clear one filled with rum. She places it on the bar in front of Dean and gestures for Benny and Jo to take seats.

Dean isn’t even sure where to start. It’s such a tangled sticky web that he’s certain it will take more hours than are left of the darkness to explain.

He uncorks the bottle and takes a good long drink, working up the nerve, deciding where to begin. He swallows his mouthful of alcohol with an exaggerated gulp, buying time, always buying time, “You know that I had a brother, yes?” His question is directed at his sailing master more than his first mate. Benny nods.

“Well, he died.”

Jo’s eyelashes lower as she bows her head in silent solidarity. The Harvelle’s are one of the families that have been by the Winchester’s sides for generations; Jo’s father had been John Winchester’s master gunner who died in a particular bloody battle. Jo had been barely thirteen when it happened, but Dean remembers comforting her after he and his father had delivered the news, almost an adult at fifteen himself.

Always wise beyond his years; even back then he understood how these things worked.

Dean clears his throat as he glances across at Ellen, who nods encouragingly. “Except he didn’t.”

Jo’s head jerks up sharply, eyes narrowing, confusion giving way to anger. “What?” Getting nothing but passivity from Dean, she turns her ire on her mother. “You know about this?”

“Let him finish.”

Dean clears his throat, “Sam disowned our father and – in the same sweep – me, as soon as he came of age. He wanted nothing to do with piracy and so he went his own way. John decided that it was easier to tell a tragic lie than an even worse truth and I just went along with it.”

“Why the _fuck_ would you do that?”

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen scolds, every inch the matriarchal figure Dean remembers from the patches of his childhood. “I said, _let him finish_.”

“I don’t know how much you remember of Captain John Winchester, but he was not a man you disobeyed. I suppose Sam was just braver than me in that aspect. ” Dean muses, more to himself than his audience.

Judging by the matching expressions on both Jo and Benny’s faces, he’s not making a lot of sense.

He sucks in a deep breath, trying to de-scramble the words to explain the situation in a way that doesn’t make him sound like he’s insane. “Almost ten years ago Sam made a deal. One for his soul. I didn’t find this out until Ellen told me about fourteen months ago. He’s got about three months left and I’m trying to find the island where it can be undone.”

Now Jo and Benny are staring at him like he’s just told them that up is down, which isn’t a whole lot better.

“He did it to save his wife, Jessica. She died and Sam offered his soul in exchange for her life.”

For a while nobody says anything else, the only sounds the occasional crash of breaking glass and laughter from outside as the rest of the island continues their festivities, oblivious.

Dean keeps shooting glances at Benny and Jo between deep gulps of rum, trying to gauge their potential reactions. For the most part, Benny’s expression remains impassive, but Jo – as always – is another story.

“You knew?” She suddenly rounds on her mother. “You knew that Sam Winchester was alive? All this time and you said _nothing_?”

“ _No_!” Ellen looks outraged by the suggestion. “I didn’t know he was alive! The first I heard of it was when the news of his deal reached me, which was only a couple of months before you next came into port and also when I told Dean.”

Dean winces. He remembers that. John Winchester was lucky to be dead, because after hours of Ellen Harvelle berating him, Dean had wished the same thing for himself. He still believes that the only reason he managed to get out of the situation alive, is because Ellen realized that she was shouting at the monkey instead of the organ grinder.

However, that won’t excuse him from the tirade that Jo seems to be gearing up for. “Why didn’t you tell me that Sam was alive? Why didn’t you tell me that he was in trouble? I’m supposed to be the one person that you can trust no matter the situation! I can’t believe that you kept all this from me!”

Her sharp words are punctuated by an even sharper slap that seems to echo throughout the empty bar. Ellen gasps.

“What is it that’s broken in you? What is it that made you think that you had to deal with this alone?”

Dean opens his mouth to attempt to explain, but Jo cuts him off. “Actually, don’t tell me. It’ll only make the urge to throttle you, stronger. The only concern I have is what your intentions are. What exactly are you proposing to do about the situation Dean? Why are you telling us this?”

Dean shifts on his seat, because if they’re struggling with the first half of this confession, the next part is really going to be hard to absorb.

“Dean.” Jo warns, patience worn down to a thread.

At this stage, there is absolutely no point in lying about it, so he says as evenly as possible, “I’m going to offer my life in exchange for Sam’s.”

The next slap stings more than the first. “What the _fuck_ is _wrong_ with you? I know I said that I didn’t want to know, but now I’m really curious, because it’s obviously something serious!”

There’s a laundry list of faults that he could mention, but in a decision that his still tingling skin will thank him for later, he keeps his mouth shut.

It doesn’t stop Ellen from joining in with her opinion, “You are being ridiculous!”

‘Nor Benny with his, “Captain, you can’t –“

Their opinions don’t matter. This isn’t a situation that calls for democracy. Nothing that any of them say will make him change his mind.

He loudly clears his throat as their frantic voices reach a crescendo. “ _I’m doing it._ ”

Their silence that follows is fraught with tension and Dean can practically _hear_ Jo’s teeth grinding together.

Dean continues, determined for his crew to listen to him just this _once_. “I am nothing to anyone; a pirate whose best quality is his loyal crew. Sam has a wife that he would die for. Where is the sense in letting him sacrifice himself needlessly, when instead he could be living out his life with her?”

Ellen looks at him like he’s already dead, all forlorn and Dean just can’t take the pity. “Dean—“

“It makes sense.” He reiterates firmly, cutting her off before she has a chance to get started. “Jo can take over. The crew knows and trusts her.”

“That still doesn’t explain where Dr. Novak fits into all this.” Benny murmurs, almost like he’s scared of fracturing the tentative peace.

“Dr. Novak is a scientist that specializes in the supernatural. He knows where the island is.” It’s only half of the truth, but he’s let enough secrets escape for one night, he’s quite content to keep this one for a bit longer.

At least until the truth becomes apparent.

But by then it will be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry for the lateness of this chapter; for those who follow me on Tumblr, you may have seen the reason why. Those who don't, it was a mini-family emergency. Luckily everything is okay and I'm back home now to continue writing. 
> 
> This chapter is a little more plot, though I'm pretty sure that it raises more questions than it answers.
> 
> Thank you once again for your wonderful comments, which I apologise for not getting back to sooner. I appreciate every single one, I swear :).

The air outside Harvelle’s is far from fresh, but Castiel gulps it down like a drowning man breaking the surface. The night seems heavier than before and the inky blackness is all-encompassing. Even the stars that he’d gotten used to seeing every night from the _Impala_ now seem conspicuously absent.

He steadies himself against the tavern, the rough brickwork harsh beneath his thin shirt, but it’s cool and grounding. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, seeing nothing but the things that he’s spent the last ten years trying to avoid.

He tries to imagine what his ring was spent on. Women – like the one Dean tried to foist on him back in that awful brothel? The thought makes him sick. Alcohol?  No, that’s even worse. For something that is so important to Castiel to end up as vomit splattered across the cobbles of this God-forsaken place is unthinkable. Ship supplies then? Supplies for a crew that maim, plunder and kill without regret? Potentially the worst out of the three.

He sighs, wishing that he had the nerve to just give the Captain a well-deserved punch. It would only be marginally ironic now that he’s healed the bastard.

The backdoor of Harvelle’s is flung open, narrowly missing Castiel’s face. He’s immediately on his guard, expecting it to be Dean, but to his surprise – and slight disappointment, though he doesn’t understand why – it’s not the Captain. Instead Gabriel and Michael stand there, flustered and wide-eyed.

“At least you didn’t go far!” Gabriel chirps, smiling and slightly out of breath.

Castiel must look confused, because Michael feels the need to clarify. “The Captain sent us looking for you.”

Most likely to drag him back kicking and screaming. Castiel hasn’t forgotten about Captain Winchester’s ferocious reputation. Keelhauling is quite a way to go.

“Well you found me.” Castiel says, letting bitterness color his tone. “I think it speaks volumes that the Captain didn’t find me worthy enough of his attentions to come looking himself.”

Gabriel and Michael exchange an unreadable glance.

“Dean is currently at the center of a very tense interrogation. One which I’m sure he’d rather not be, judging by his miserable-yet-still-handsome face.”

Castiel frowns at Gabriel. “What do you mean?”

“After you left, he went crazy, smashing the place up. We could hear it all the way in the bar.”

“Some very choice words were uttered,” Michael adds.

“Oh yes. He’s got quite a mouth on him,” Gabriel waggles his eyebrows suggestively, which – whilst the words are true and take Castiel back to his earlier thoughts – is not helpful.

It’s strange, because Castiel’s first instinct is to go back inside to check on Dean’s stitches. If he’d been in the rage that Gabriel and Michael are describing, then there’s a good chance that he’s ruined all of Castiel’s good work.

It’s only the lack of wedding ring on his finger that stops him.

“What happened?” Michael asks softly, always the sensible one. Castiel is taciturn by nature, but he’d had to give his team a briefing of events in his life, for them to understand the importance of the research expedition that he’d employed them for.

Which means that when he explains the situation and why he’d run away once again, Michael and Gabriel are suitably outraged.

“What a prick!” Gabriel exclaims like a scandalized woman and Castiel can feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Michael nods, adding a touch of sincerity, “That’s appalling. I can’t believe he would do that.”

“I can,” Castiel murmurs sullenly. “He’s a pirate. I’m not sure what made me think that he’d be different.”

As if to illustrate his point, a horde of pirates hanging off barely-dressed women, stagger past with bottles of rum clutched in their grubby hands, singing a rather vulgar song about their desire to be climbing up a whore’s rigging.

“Does he have any idea of the ring’s importance?” Michael asks, once the group have passed and stumbled face-first into another tavern.

“No.” Castiel admits begrudgingly, “but he’s not stupid. He knows what a gold band worn on the left hand means.”

“Yes, but I’m sure he’s captured many married men before. Wedding rings aren’t unique. If he didn’t know why you value yours so highly…”

Castiel looks at Michael, incredulous. “Are you trying to defend him for his actions?”

Michael holds his hands up in a supplicatory gesture, backing away a step. “Not at all. I’m just trying to help explain why the Captain – a man who, considering his occupation _and_ reputation, has been rather fair to us all – may have gotten rid of something so important.”

Castiel considers this. It doesn’t excuse Dean’s behavior at all, but it is possible that he just assumed it something that was easily replaceable.

And if he had not lost his wife and child to a kraken almost ten years ago, then it may well have been. But as it is, it was all he had left of his family – besides his fading memories – and now it’s gone forever.

His little girl; Claire – who had been so _so_ beautiful, with a porcelain complexion and long hair reminiscent of spun gold – used to insist on wearing the ring on a chain around her delicate neck to look after it. Castiel’s work as a marine biologist often meant that he’d be out on a small boat for weeks and so rather than run the risk of losing it, he entrusted his most precious possession to his most precious person.

His wife, Amelia, had it made personally by the local jeweler’s apprentice, and the beautiful script engraved on the inside of the band was something that he used to look at every day to remind himself of how lucky he was.

And he was lucky.

He’d had a happy life, filled with good friends and an even better family. Amelia was always fascinated with his work and sometimes he would take her and Claire out on the boat to observe him working. There were days when they saw beautifully colored tropical fish and Claire would squeal with delight, her excitement so innocent and infectious.

But he’d learned the hard way that all good things must come to an end.

“Castiel?”

It could be the first or fiftieth call of his name, he doesn’t know. What he _does_ know is that Michael is staring at him; shadows falling across his concerned expression and Gabriel is nowhere to be found.

“Sorry,” Castiel churns the apology out automatically, “where’s Gabriel?”

“He’s gone to find us a bed for the night. It would be a good idea for you to sleep.”

Yes. Sleep so that he can dream of the moment that his family was so cruelly snatched from him. The nightmares will be nothing new; just the same events replayed over and over – yet another way that the demon continues to torment him.

“Okay,” Castiel acquiesces weakly; there is no point in arguing. Instead, a change of subject, “What happened to Uriel and Zachariah?”

Michael’s expression changes, darkens into something that Castiel hasn’t been privy to before. “They didn’t show up. If it weren’t for Benny and Jo appearing when they did, I’m certain that I wouldn’t be standing in front of you right now.”

Castiel is having trouble being thankful for any of the pirates at this moment in time, no matter how decent he once though them. What was that phrase? Once bitten, twice shy.

“Do you think they could be in trouble?” On this island, it was a real possibility.

Michael scoffs. “I doubt it. Though if they are, it’ll be of their own making. I don’t know if you heard last night, but they were discussing a possible mutiny.”

Castiel fights the urge to laugh hysterically. Dean would crush the pair of them without even breaking a sweat. Judging by Michael’s amused look, his thoughts are similar in nature.

“That would be very foolish.”

Michael makes a noise of assent. “I am interested though. Who would you side with?”

“What?”

“If it came to it. Would you join with the righteous losing side or the morally ambiguous winning side?”

“Morally ambiguous is a slight understatement, I feel.” _Huge_ understatement.

Michael laughs, a deep, rich sound that calms Castiel, eases his nerves a touch. “Perhaps I may have been a little light-handed in my descriptions, but you understand my meaning, so the question still stands.”

“I have no desire to die.” Castiel says carefully.

“Aha!” Michael grins, like he’s got his answer.

“But I would rather that, than live with the knowledge that I gave up my principles. So I would fight alongside the morally superior men and when it came time for the Captain to kill me, I would look him straight in the eye and tell him to go fuck himself.”

Michael’s eyes almost bug out of his head and he seems to choke on air, wheezing out bursts of shocked laughter.

Gabriel suddenly reappears from the darkness, stepping into the lantern light, bright grin on his features. “I’ve found us somewhere to sleep for the night –“ he stops, smile fading a little as his eyes dart back and forth between Castiel and Michael, searching for an explanation that does not seem to be forthcoming. “What’s so funny?”

 

***

 

Castiel sleeps about as well as he feared he might and so by the time the morning rolls around, he is quite possibly in an even worse mood than the night before. It’s not helped by the potent stench of pigs clinging to his clothing.

Gabriel’s taste in sleeping arrangements leaves something to be desired.

When they get back aboard the _Impala_ , Castiel is only slightly surprised to see Captain Winchester standing near the ships wheel, looking unfairly handsome for any time of the day, let alone just as dawn is breaking. He appears to be well-rested and content; hardly the subject of the interrogation that Michael and Gabriel had suggested.

It only serves as a bitter reminder of just how cold-hearted the man really is.

Castiel makes to trudge past, head lowered, hoping to remain unseen, but luck is not on his side – never really has been – and so of course, Dean notices.

“Dr. Novak. You look – and smell – like shit.”

Castiel raises his head and narrows his gaze, making it apparent that he’s unimpressed with Dean in general, but specifically at this moment. His eyes flick to the uncovered wound on the pirate’s shoulder. It’s stitched, but not in the neat, clean way Castiel had done it.

A small spark of satisfaction tickles all the way to Castiel’s fingertips. So Dean’s temper tantrum hadn’t been overblown and now he’s left with substandard sutures.

Castiel only hopes that if gangrene sets in and there has to be an amputation that he will be the one to do it. He’s never delighted in another man’s pain before, but he’d be happy to inflict some upon the Captain under the guise of medical care.

“Slept with some pigs did you?” The gold flecks around the pupil seem brighter today, almost glowing in the weak rising sun, the green clear and alluring.

Meeting the Captain’s gaze, Castiel is reminded of the kaleidoscope that he’d bought Claire for her fifth birthday and the way that it shifted and changed colors, patterns and moods with even the slightest nudge. It’s a strange, but fitting, analogy for Dean; he’s chaotic, contradictory and completely unpredictable – always fluctuating colors, sliding from scarlet to maize then back to his neutral Napier green.

Castiel craves order; needs routine and ritual as much as he’s ever needed anything.

Dean with his unruly nature royally fucks that up.

“Well, it’s still preferable to sleeping with you.” The words are out before he can stop himself. “And of course, the pigs are infinitely more intelligent and well-behaved than you could ever hope to be.”

Dean grins, the insult sliding off his back, easy as anything as he shifts colors once again; now slipping casually into the maroon that seems like a second skin. “So you’ve thought about what it would be like to sleep with me?”

Castiel splutters. That is _not_ what he meant.

“You’re disgusting.” He’s hoping that the animosity with which the words are spat will deter the Captain from continuing on his drive to make Castiel as uncomfortable and/or angry as possible.

Of course that doesn’t happen. Instead, Dean’s infuriating grin widens, “That’s not a no.”

“I’d say it’s heavily implied.”

Dean doesn’t answer, just hums thoughtfully, so Castiel takes the opportunity to get away from the Captain and his ridiculous attentions, and he doesn’t bother to look back when he says, “Let’s hurry up and leave this place. I hate this island almost as much as I hate you.”

Dean sounds dubious; a confused shade of orange, when he calls out to Castiel’s departing back, “You’re still going to help me?”

Castiel turns to face Dean once more, allowing a grin of his own to spread across his features, “Of course!” He chirps with false happiness, “I want you dead more than ever and if there’s _anything_ I can do to expedite the process then I’m all for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More bickering afoot, because apparently I just can't help myself.
> 
> Thank you once again to all of you who are commenting and kudos-ing. It's muchly appreciated :).

Castiel’s desire to see him dead really isn’t all that surprising given the circumstances. Were the boot on the other foot, Dean would have almost definitely made an attempt on his life.

Which would be unwise beyond belief, but it’s also the reason why Dean is just a heathen pirate captain and Castiel is scientist.

So they set sail for the Island of Crosses, casting off from Tortuga and Dean saying his (final) goodbyes to Ellen before he slips away quietly to his dayroom, done with his happy façade for the next few hours at least. It’s perhaps a little cowardly to hide himself away like this, but after the things Dean has faced down and come out the other side of, he believes himself more than entitled to wallow once in a while.

But of course his time alone is short-lived, and within half an hour Jo is barging in, all blond hair and enthusiasm.

“Dean! You said that Dr. Novak is a supernatural scientist, correct?”

Dean looks up from the vellum chart he’s been poring over. He doesn’t like where this conversation is going already.

Any pirate worth their salt can navigate with little more than a chart, back-staff and gut instinct. Dean has gotten so good at it now that he can judge distance to within about a mile. Which is rather impressive, even if he does say so himself. The problem he’s currently having is attempting to locate an island that can’t be found by anyone but those already damned, or by those who have encountered one of the many demons that resides there.

Which may be where the scientist’s dual purpose comes in.

“Yes. He is. But whatever you’re thinking, just don’t.”      

Jo’s expression doesn’t falter, still determined to ‘help’ Dean, despite his repeated insistence that he neither wants nor needs it. “Why don’t you tell him the truth? Talk to him about why you’re going to this island? He might be able to find a loophole?”

It’s not a bad idea. In fact, it was one of the very first things he’d thought of when he’d heard that there was even such a thing as a supernatural scientist, but aside from ‘helping’ Dean to die, there isn’t anything that Castiel can – or would want to – do, that Dean hasn’t already thought of and planned out to the nth degree.

So the _new_ problem that Dean is having, is working out how to convey that to Jo without giving more away than he wants to. Or anything at all.

So he goes with something that’s true enough to not raise her suspicions, but also vague enough for her to let it go. “Dr. Novak hates me,” he cuts her off when she opens her mouth to protest, “there’s no point in suggesting otherwise. The man told me to my face this morning.”

“But if he knew –“

Dean stands up out of his seat, wood scraping across the floorboards as his chair is pushed back. “Then what Jo? He’d know and could use it to manipulate me? Have you completely lost your senses? Am I going to be making a mistake leaving the ship to you? You cannot allow your emotions to control your actions!”

“Oh that’s fucking rich!”

Dean can feel himself close to losing his patience, which in a roundabout way proves Jo right, but he holds it back, reins it in and keeps his speech low and even when he replies, “I am completely in control of what I’m doing. I’m being pragmatic and making a logical decision. _One that makes sense_. If you are incapable of rationality, then maybe I should pass the captaincy along to somebody who doesn’t feel the need to try and undermine me at every turn.”

It’s a shitty move and a low blow, but it serves the purpose for which it was intended.

“You absolute bastard.” Jo’s voice is firm, but wounded as she backs away, looking at Dean as if he’s a stranger, which may be close enough to the truth that Dean feels it in his chest; an ache that just won’t disappear, no matter how much he drinks, kills or fucks. “You absolute fucking bastard!”

And then she’s gone, not even wasting her energy on slamming the door behind her.

Dean sinks back into his chair with a sigh and he scrubs a hand over his face, wishing that things were different. Time spent wishing is time wasted and yadda yadda, but in the relative privacy of his dayroom, Dean allows his mind to wander, playing out scenes that never happened, but could have done if life had dealt him a different hand or if he’d made different choices.

It’s for that reason that he doesn’t see the figure loitering in the space that Jo has just vacated.

“Another happy customer?”

It’s Castiel. Which is just _perfect_ , because what he needs right now is another argument. But, he’s got to play the game, so he throws on his best smile and spreads his arms wide with a shrug that is all fake nonchalance.

“What can I say? I know what the people want.”

And what Castiel wants is for Dean to die. He’d known it, wasn’t surprised by it, but the words spat at him with such venom had wounded, as per their intent. Though why he cares what Castiel thinks remains to be seen, but for now, Dean tells himself that he’s tired and anxious and therefore a little easier to hurt than usual.

It’s bullshit, but if he tells himself it enough times, he may just begin to believe it.

Castiel eyes him like he sees past Dean’s smoke and mirrors, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he shrugs with the air of someone pretending to be indifferent; most likely an exact replica of Dean’s shrug moments before, “Your sailing master sent me down here to go over the charts with you to plot a proper course for the island.”

Dean nods. It’s always nice to know that he can rely on Benny to be sensible about this situation, even if Jo can’t see past her own issues with what Dean has planned.

“I don’t still smell of pigs if that’s a concern.”

The words are spoken with Castiel’s usual stoicism, but there’s something about them that catch Dean off guard and instead of replying, his throat only manages a strangled laugh. Because really, on a list of problems as long as Dean’s arm, Castiel stinking doesn’t even register.

And that’s ignoring the fact that even reeking of pig shit, Castiel is still more sweet-smelling than about seventy percent of his crew.

Seventy percent is probably a generous estimation.

“No, Cas, it’s not a concern.”

Castiel’s brows knit together in a frown; whether because of the nickname or Dean’s choked laughter, he doesn’t know, but the scientist looks more like a petulant child than a man in his thirties, which sets Dean off guffawing again.

It’s ridiculous, but the laughter is somewhat cathartic; a release of tension from the last few days that makes Dean instantly feel lighter, even if the situation remains the same. So he surrenders to it, forgetting what was supposed to even be funny in the first place. It becomes a moot point when he sees Castiel’s face smoothing out at Dean’s amusement, giving way to a small smile that sparks something inside of Dean and makes him speak without thinking. “You know, you should smile more often.”

And that’s it. Abruptly Castiel shuts down; all hints of good humor wiped from his expression as he stares at Dean dispassionately.

Somewhere on his travels, Dean had been told that eyes are the window to the soul. He’d always dismissed it as romantic rubbish, but now he’s able to see the merit in the words; those blue eyes are belying whatever emotion is caged in under Castiel’s skin.

“I would smile more if I had something to smile about.”

As someone who is confident in the art of deception, Dean cannot fathom how people make it through life wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Smiling even though he doesn’t necessarily feel it is second nature to him now.

It’s genuine curiosity that motivates him to ask, “Why not just smile anyway? Why leave the door open for others to revel in your misery?”

“Because there’s putting a ‘brave face on it’ and then there’s what you do.”

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise. “What?”

Castiel shoots him a disbelieving look, “Don’t insult my intelligence _Dean_. Let’s just get this over and done with so I can get as far away from you as this tub allows.”

Harsh. Dean can take criticism levelled at himself, but at his precious ship? Strictly unnecessary.

“Fine.” He agrees, a hint of bitterness in his tone as he turns back to the chart spread out on his desk. “I’ll try not to keep you. Wouldn’t want you be gone long enough for anybody to miss your winning personality.”

He hears a disbelieving snort coming from behind him as Castiel approaches. “You can’t not be a prick for longer than five minutes can you?”

Dean bites his tongue to stop his ever-mature retort of ‘takes one to know one’ from spilling out. It wouldn’t really achieve anything other than antagonizing Castiel and as much fun as that is, it’s not conducive to them getting to the island.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” he says instead, mentally congratulating himself for his sensibleness. He is, after all, supposed to be the Captain of this ship and a fearsome one at that. He can just throw his reputation in the scientist’s face whenever he wants to.

Though somehow, he gets the impression that his words have mostly lost the bite that they once had now that Castiel is aware of his own value to Dean.

Maybe he should do more to disabuse Castiel of that notion. If this entire experience has taught him anything, it’s that people like him are expendable; unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and he’s starting to think it’s time that the scientist had a reminder.

Sam is all that matters in this situation. Dean will stop at nothing to make sure his brother is safe and gets the future with his wife that he deserves. If that involves collateral damage, then so be it. Even if he has to tell himself that every second of every day until the mantra becomes iron-clad and indestructible, he will.

Castiel peers over his shoulder, staring down at the mess of maps and charts on Dean’s desk, picking up a thick, leather-bound journal and inspecting it, humming thoughtfully.

“A volvelle?”

“Yes. A moving diagram for calculating –“

“– the tides from the phases of the moon, yes I’m aware of what it does.” Castiel says, somewhat snippily, “do you have some kind of key for it?”

Dean cracks a smile. So the scientist doesn’t know everything after all. He just thinks he does. “I can show you,” Dean says, not bothering to hide his smugness, “it’s pretty straightforward.”

Castiel huffs, clearly annoyed at his inferiority in this subject; not able to lord it over Dean as he does with almost everything else. “You won’t be around for all the time that I need to be here doing this. If I have questions, then I need answers as soon as possible.”

Dean is about to baulk at the insinuation that Castiel will be spending time in this room unsupervised, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he silently rises from his chair and crosses the room to the mahogany bookcase in the corner. It stands a little under four feet tall and can comfortably house the twenty or so books that Dean has.

Of course, the thing is stolen. Taken from a trading vessel off the coast of Florida, but the books are all Dean’s. Mostly acquired in the past year or so.

He drops down on his haunches and scans the thick spines of the books, attempting to ignore the weight of Castiel’s eyes on his back. He knows that right now, he’s completely shattering the scientist’s pre-conceived notions of him, and there’s absolutely no reason that he shouldn’t enjoy it whilst it lasts.

He makes a small triumphant noise when he finds the correct one, straightening back up with a quiet groan of protest from his joints and when he turns around, he’s quick enough to notice the flush of color on Castiel’s cheeks as his eyes dart away, guiltily.

Dean smirks.

When he returns, tome in hand, Castiel is gaping at the back-staff Dean had acquired in North Africa at a bazaar, tilting his head to look at the arcane markings engraved into the steel.

It had been purchased not long after he found about Sam’s predicament, as part of an early attempt to find the island himself, before he discovered that it would be far quicker to track an expert down.

Not necessarily easier though.

“Enochian?” Castiel runs his thumb along the inscriptions, almost in awe.

Dean sets the heavy book down at the corner of his desk. He’d been hoping that Castiel would know the ancient language. It seems like the man is worth the trouble after all.

“Yes. I believe it says, ‘seeking out the crossways takes more than just faith’.”

Castiel nods, then looks up at Dean, quietly impressed. “You’re correct. So you know Latin and Enochian?”

“Mmm. Not bad for a heathen pirate, I know.”

Castiel visibly winces under the harshness of his own words. “Captain—Dean. I underestimated you and for that I am sorry…” the ‘but’ hangs thick in the air as Dean situates himself next to Cas at the desk and stares down at the map, trying to ignore the tension swelling between them, threatening to break and drown them both. This close he can smell the cheap soap that the crew all use, but when combined with the underlying scent of Castiel himself, it turns into something rich and sublime, something intoxicating that Dean finds himself drawn to.

His attraction to the scientist is something that he can’t bring himself to deny; the man is both beautiful – something he’d never thought a man capable of – and ruggedly handsome. It’s yet another contradiction the man holds, making Dean wish he had more time left so that he could spend it working the scientist out, discover his motivations for doing the things he has.

Dean doesn’t have time though. He simply has the here and now, which is the only reason he can think of for what he does next.

Castiel turns to face him, about to say something else, his blue eyes giving more away than the rest of his body, but still not enough for Dean to judge whether his lips against Castiel’s are going to be met with resistance or acceptance and for a moment, other than a tiny flinch, Cas doesn’t react, possibly not wanting to give Dean the satisfaction.

But then he does.  And nobody is more surprised than Dean when the scientist pulls him in closer, bodies molding together, filling every space between them until there’s nothing left but thin cloth and warm skin. The kiss that began as a relatively innocent press of lips, quickly devolves into something resembling desperation as Castiel forcefully backs Dean against the table, fists clenched in Dean’s linen shirt, tongue relentlessly chasing Dean’s.

It’s heady and inebriating, all slick tongues and harsh insistence, and Dean struggles under the weight of his conscience when Castiel breaks from the kiss, his mouth inches away and pants, “I fucking hate you.”

Dean attempts to soothe away the animosity with his lips and tongue, kissing more deeply and pressing closer to Castiel, wanting to feel _more_ , always _more_. The kisses get hungrier, heavier and more demanding until Dean manages to gasp out a broken, “I know,” between one kiss and the next, not wanting – or able – to stop for anything.

It’s with that admission that the spell is inadvertently broken and Castiel seems to come to his senses, abruptly shoving himself away from Dean, removing all that glorious warmth and firm, lithe muscle from out of Dean’s reach as he backs away, painfully similar to how Jo had just an hour before.

Dean finds himself floundering, unable to apologize for something that felt that good, that right and despite absolutely _everything_ , he just wants Castiel back in his arms again.

“No.” Castiel mutters, shaking his head wildly, “you don’t know. How could you? And even if you did, why would you care?”

Dean opens his mouth to reply, suddenly desperate to tell Castiel everything; to explain _why_ , but the cold realization of the situation hits him like a tidal wave and settles there in his gut, weighing down the brief happiness like a stone.

It’s easier to wound than it is to embrace.

“You’re right. Why would I care Cas? Because you didn’t, did you? Did you even shed a tear when your family died? How can you talk to me about morality when you’re the most venal person on this ship?” The words are out there and he couldn’t take them back even if he wanted to. He’s been dancing around this topic for the last ten days, waiting for Castiel to prove himself to be the man Dean had heard he was, but now as they face off against one another, angry and still reeling from the kiss that should never have happened, Dean feels a niggle of guilt.

“Fuck you.” The words are enunciated clearly, cut-glass and unmistakable. There’s definite hurt shimmering in azure-cerulean eyes now and for the first time in his life, Dean knows what it’s like to truly make an irreparable mistake.

Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups, after all.

“Cas –“

“How did you even—“ Castiel stops himself off with a choked-off sound and Dean feels absolutely fucking wretched, because there’s just no faking this kind of raw emotion. “How do you know? What do you _think_ you know about me?”

Dean tries again, “Cas –“

But Castiel is having no more of it than he was ten seconds ago, resolve winning out against his desire to be as far away from Dean as possible. “No. You’re going to tell me or I won’t help you find the island. And we both know that without me, you’ll never find it. And then you neither of us get what we want, which is you _dead_.”

And _shit_. Because this right here? This is precisely where Dean didn’t want to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no excuses for how long this has taken.   
> I'm so sorry guys and thank you for your patience (don't you hate it when people say that?! It's not like you had a fuckin' choice!) and I'll try to be better in the future.
> 
> Anyways, yeah. Thanks guys :). I hope you enjoy it.

Dean’s entire body tenses like he’s got a gun to his head and for a second Castiel thinks that the answer is going to be him meeting his demise at the hull of the _Impala_ , but then Dean seems to compose himself, drawing up and falling back into the cool indifference that he’s clearly spent a lot time perfecting.

“Fine. Ask away.”

Which – despite the anger bubbling away just below the surface – manages to surprise Castiel. He’d expected the usual flex of the ‘I’m a pirate Captain so do as I say or else’ muscle, but it never comes. In its stead is just tired acceptance and it’s then that Castiel finally sees that beneath the sarcasm and bright smiles that Dean wears like armor, is someone who is exhausted, completely worn down.

Castiel has so many questions that he doesn’t know where to start. He wants to know why Dean holds him in such contempt, what he thinks he knows about Castiel’s family. They are questions about the past however, and right now, Castiel is more concerned with his future.

“Why do you want to go to the Island of Crosses?”

Dean doesn’t look surprised by the question, just bored. “Why do you think?”

“To trade your soul for riches and/or power.” Castiel says it without taking any time to consider his answer. He has spent too long pondering the many things that one would sell their soul for; love, hate, family… but none of those apply to Dean.

“Then you keep on thinking that. It’s easier for you to believe me evil than to accept that I’m just the same as you.”

“We are _not_ the same.”

Dean’s retort is cut off by muffled shouts coming from above deck and a split second later, Rufus appears, barreling into the room, visibly flustered when he blurts out, “Captain there’s a ship coming up on us fast. It’s looking like they’re wanting to engage in battle.”

“Pirates?” At Rufus’s nod, Dean bites out a harsh, “Fuck.” He is up and instantly in Captain Mode, pacing across the floorboards as he barks out orders quickly and concisely, and Rufus nods in understanding before disappearing again, boots thumping against the wooden steps.

Castiel side-eyes Dean, surreptitiously watching him, waiting with baited breath to see what he’s going to do next.

“I think it’s best if you stay here.” Dean says, slowly and evenly, not looking at Castiel. “It’s the safest place on the ship for you at the moment.”

“I’d rather take my chances out there than remain here with you.”

Dean finally looks at him, an eyebrow raised. “Well don’t let me stop you.” He crosses the room to a medicine chest, opening a glass jar and pulling out what looks like a small pouch of gunpowder. “However, I won’t be here, so there’s no need for seppuku just yet.”

“You’re not going up there are you?” Castiel can’t keep the astonishment from his voice; despite Dean’s show of bravery back in Tortuga, he hadn’t really had much of a choice, lest he lose Castiel and therefore his chance at getting to the island. Here though, he could easily sit back and let the men fight on his behalf.

Dean replaces the lid and levels Castiel with a look that suggests that the idea of not fighting alongside his crew is a foreign concept. “What kind of Captain do you think I am? No wait,” he holds his hand up to stow any reply that Castiel may have had, “actually, I don’t want to know the answer to that. I’m not sure my ego can take any more for today.”

Castiel can barely think straight, let alone reply. Things are happening faster than he can keep up with and that’s even before Dean is dropping the smooth leather pouch into one hand and slapping a pistol into the other.

“I take it that you know how this works?”

Castiel wants to scoff derisively at Dean’s sarcasm, but he can’t, because he doesn’t know and so he listens patiently as Dean explains the hammer mechanism and how to load the damn thing. The wood and cool metal feels smooth against his palm and for a brief second, it crosses Castiel’s mind that Dean has just handed him a loaded weapon.

Visions of him shoving the barrel of the gun against Dean’s temple and demanding explanations, the ship’s invasion be damned, swim around in his brain; a sore temptation to make reality, but he’s never been a selfish man and so he refrains, easing down his disquiet at the situation.

As if Dean can read his mind, he leans in closer to Castiel until his lips are against Castiel’s ear, his breath warm when it curls around the words that he murmurs lowly, “If you’re going to kill me, then I suggest you do it in the heat of battle so as not to arouse suspicion. If you do it in here, everyone will know it was you.”

And with that strange – but sensible – advice, Dean is striding out of the room and up the stairs to follow Rufus into the chaos that is about to unfold on the deck.

Castiel fidgets for a few moments as he wavers, unsure of what to do. He’s quietly terrified; despite everything, he knows that he’s been lucky with Dean’s leniency. As the pirates on Tortuga proved, it’s not a regular occurrence for a lot of Captain Winchester’s ilk.

Which does not bode well for Castiel’s future if he’s captured.

He needs to focus on something other than the very real danger of him dying aboard this ship. Fear will serve him no favors. He needs to work out a plan of action.

He wonders how long it would take him to become as indifferent and inured to violence as Dean. The Captain had seemed more annoyed than afraid at the prospect of an attack, but Castiel supposes that a man who has no qualms about selling his soul for the promise of money probably isn’t too squeamish about death.

And yet.

And yet, for a split second, in the fraction of an instant before their kiss, Castiel had seen fear splintering through the green, worming its way into the gold. And not mere anxiety, but bone-shattering, earthly terror. It made Dean seem so much more human; a man rather than a criminal.

He attributes his momentary lapse in judgment to that glimmer of humanity.

Castiel’s cheeks heat with embarrassment at the memory of Dean’s mouth against his. He’d be lying to himself – and he’s not in the habit of doing that – if he said that he hadn’t enjoyed the feeling of Dean’s hard body against his, so different from the softness of Amelia that he barely remembers. Dean’s lips were just as pliant though, warm and yielding, and it felt good enough that Castiel lost himself for far too long in the depth of feeling he got from something that was undoubtedly hollow for the Captain.

Shit.

He stares down at the gun in his hand, turning it over in his palm, trying to decide whether his presence would be a help or a hindrance any way. He’s hardly a capable fighter and he’s not entirely certain that he wouldn’t just seek out Dean and take him up on his suggestion.

He hates being torn; making decisions with no idea of the consequences. It’s why he became a scientist in the first place – a way of studying, learning and eventually controlling the outcomes of things. Dean Winchester is proving a difficult subject to master; a question without a clear answer and therein lies Castiel’s biggest problem with the Captain, a man who –  by his own admission – is an anomaly in a world that already makes very little sense.

Castiel sighs. He’s already lost everything of import, fought hard to try and get it back. Why not fight that little harder?

 

***

 

To say that it’s pandemonium up on deck is a serious understatement. It makes the attack on the _Granada_ look like child’s play; a warm up for a real battle and Castiel swallows down his fear, pushing it all to the back of his mind as his eyes dart over the scene in front of him, trying to pick out areas where he may be able to offer help, whether it be in the form of a gun or healing hands.

The air is iron-rich, tinged with salt from the sea and all around him the deep red of blood clashes with the tranquil blue of the water. The sounds of scraping metal and anguished cries are deafening in comparison to the relative peace that being in the middle of the ocean usually offers and it takes Castiel a few precious moments to adjust to this world that he’s abruptly found himself in.

“Castiel!” Gabriel materializes at his side, gasping for breath, noticeably injured. “The Captain told me that if you came up here, I was to escort you back down. It’s not safe.”

Castiel eyes up the abdomen wound which is bleeding liberally, a long stretch of red seeping through Gabriel’s shirt. “Gabriel, come with me. You need medical attention.”

Gabriel shakes his head weakly, “It’s fine. It looks worse than it is.”

It doesn’t take much for Castiel to hook an arm around Gabriel's back and under his armpit for support, and steer him downstairs. He refuses to have what little companionship he has left in this world taken away from him without a fight. “Listen to me. I’m going to patch you up. It’ll be okay.”

He keeps anxiously chattering to Gabriel as they make their way back to the Captain’s dayroom. Mostly nonsense, just for something to say, as Gabriel rapidly slips into delirium; face ashen and soaked with a thin sheen of sweat by the time Castiel manages to get him slumped into the seat nearest the big bay window.

Castiel frantically searches through the jars of medicine, hands trembling, clanking the glassware together as he scans the Latin writing to find the one labeled Rosemary; a strong astringent.

He dashes back over to Gabriel’s side, oil in hand, dropping to his knees beside the chair. His friend grows more delirious, muttering a steady stream of nonsense as Castiel sets about ripping Gabriel’s shirt open to get to the wound. The diagonal slash is still oozing blood, red pumping thick and Castiel has to fight hard to quell the rising panic clawing at the back of his throat.

“…you were a’ways giv’n the Capt’n the eye, but I – I knew… knew it was me you wan’ed.”

Castiel manages a shaky smile as he tears some strips off the nearest panel of Gabriel’s shirt. “How could I resist you Gabriel?”

“The Capt’n is ve’y handsome. Not your faul’ you got sucked in by the pretty.”

Castiel soaks the makeshift bandages in the rosemary oil and presses them to the wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding. “Gabriel, can you hold this here for me? I just need to get some more supplies.”

Gabriel sluggishly obliges, grunting when his hand slaps down a little too hard.

This time Castiel goes the paneled section of the medicine chest, tugging one of the doors open and searching through the various tools and supplies – cauterizing irons, forceps, syringes, splints etc. – until he finds some clouts to bind the wound properly with.

When he scurries back to Gabriel, he presses the back of his hand to Gabriel’s forehead and is unsurprised to find that the man is burning with a fever. Sage Tea would be the ideal aid for that, and whilst he’s certain that the well-stocked medicine chest has the herb, he has no means of preparing it here.

For now, he sets about attending to the wound in the best way that he can with what he has. The noises from the deck above not only fan the flames of his fear, but also strengthen his resolve. He will not be letting Gabriel die here and once this is all over, he will be finding out _exactly_ why Captain Dean Winchester has brought this down upon them.

It gives him something to focus on, something to assuage the fear and helplessness he feels.

Gabriel has been murmuring the whole time, words that Castiel had been replying to in a soothing tone, but mostly ignoring their meaning until Gabriel says, “Zach…Uriel…t-this is them y’know – Gord’n Walker…”

Michael’s mention of a potential mutiny that Zachariah and Uriel were planning appears fresh and vibrant in Castiel’s mind and he doesn’t question the link that forms. There’s no doubt that it wouldn’t have been hard for Captain Walker to follow them from Tortuga and wait until they were far enough from land to send for help.

The _Impala_ is a sturdy ship and able to maintain a decent speed, but she would be no match for a smaller, faster sloop. Which Walker must have if he’s managed to sneak up on them.

One look at Gabriel – collateral damage as far as Uriel and Zachariah will be concerned – makes Castiel’s decision for him and he rises to his feet, patting his friend on the shoulder. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I just need to get some hot water to make you the sage tea.” It’s not a total lie.

Gabriel reaches out, clutching at Castiel, but his grasp is so weak, Castiel easily pries the fingers off his wrist. “Don’ Cast’el…you can’t. ‘Sposed to keep you safe—“

“It’s okay,” Castiel pacifies, though he has no idea if it is or will be, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Before he can change his mind, he’s grabbing the gun on loan from Dean and throwing himself back upstairs and into the melee.

There are less bodies standing and more littering the deck now and it makes Castiel’s heart heavy with the sheer futility of it all.

About ten yards in front of him, a young man he recognizes as a new found friend of Samandriel’s receives a sword to the gut and before Castiel can think about what he’s doing, he’s moving through the chaos towards the poor boy, not really sure how he can help, but determined not to let him die alone at the very least.

It’s in that moment that his sights finally land on Dean and the man that stands over him, gun pointed directly at Dean’s head. There’s a conversation taking place between them and Castiel would really love to know exactly what it is Zachariah is saying that has the usually relatively composed Captain clenching his jaw, whole body taut with barely contained rage.

It’s then that Castiel realizes that this is the opportune moment.

It would be perfect. It would be just like Dean said – the clamor of battle gives him the perfect cover – but _better_ , because Castiel wouldn’t have even been the one to pull the trigger. It would take nothing to do nothing. To let Zachariah rid them all of the man who has caused so much pain. Not just to them, but undoubtedly others as well.

To rid the world of a man who fights for nothing but himself.

_‘Nobody’s coming with me; I don’t want anybody else dying.’_

_‘It’s easier for you to believe me evil than to accept that I’m just the same as you.’_

Except, Castiel instinctively knows that isn’t true. The only time he’s seen even a sliver of fear behind those green eyes was in the instant before their kiss. Which reveals more about Dean than a thousand words ever could. His words are just that; words, bluster, bullshit. Used to cover up, to deflect, to protect. He lies with his words, but not with his body. Never has been able to since the first day when he stared at Castiel like he was something strange and exotic. Like he was _something_.

Dean Winchester isn’t doing any of this for money or power. There are easier ways to achieve either without certain death, and they mean nothing to him. No, his motivations are much deeper than that and Castiel cannot let the man die without knowing what they are.

With that in mind, he aims the pistol, thumbs back the hammer and squeezes the trigger.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


End file.
